


Duty and Devotion

by Kyla_Baines



Series: Devotion Trilogy [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Romance, Slow Burn, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-13
Updated: 2016-07-26
Packaged: 2018-07-23 20:47:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 40,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7479396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kyla_Baines/pseuds/Kyla_Baines
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cullen has always stood by the rules, his duty to the Templar Order unwavering. The path to the Maker's side, however, is filled with tests and forbidden passions that threaten to break his vows. Duty and devotion cannot both be won.</p>
<p>Book 1 of the Devotion Trilogy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I have been a fan of Cullen since Origins, and this story started brewing shortly thereafter. What started as a multi-chapter single work, has since snowballed into what will be a three book series that will span all three games. Each book roughly covers the length of one game. Duty and Devotion (book 1) is complete (previously posted on fanfiction.net under the same name), and I will be posting edited chapters frequently as I make minor changes. Duty and Desire (Book 2) currently has several chapters written, and more in the works. 
> 
> I hope that you enjoy reading this as much as I did writing!

_Prologue_

A flash of light shimmered over the door before vanishing with a trace. Enchanter Gravid, who had cast the spell, nodded at the leader of the small group, confirming the damp cellar in the tower’s storeroom area to be silenced. The only illumination in the room, a single candle, cast an eerie shadow over Uldred’s face.

“Before we proceed, I must remind you all that by being present tonight, you have committed to our purpose.” His voice was quiet, but commanded the attention of the men and women present. “There is no turning back.”

The assembled mages nodded. They all understood the risk. If found out, they would either be made Tranquil or executed—whether by the templars, or by their fellows.

“You all know my objectives,” Uldred continued. “As members of the Libertarian Fraternity, we all believe that mages should be free to govern themselves. But _not enough has been done_. Until now.”

Absolute silence blanketed the room.

“Too long have we been oppressed by the templars, forced to reign in our true powers and cast spells that are a mere pittance of what we are capable of.” Uldred’s thin lips curled into a sneer. “Worse are the loyalists, spouting the values of the Chantry and _agreeing_ that we should be muzzled like mabari.”

Murmurs of agreement echoed his proclamation. After allowing this moment of shared outrage, a gaunt hand silenced the group again.

Uldred narrowed his eyes. “We are not yet ready to act, brothers. Soon, though. Very soon, indeed.”

“When, though?”

Uldred searched for the speaker, and allowed himself a small smile at the mage’s eager tone. “A few months, perhaps more. We must have patience; we must wait for the opportune moment. Then, when a weakness presents itself, we will strike. Until then, you all know what must be done: continue to quietly monitor those who could be recruited—strong though we are, we will need all the help we can get. When that day comes, though, we will reveal ourselves and our powers.” He looked around once more before continuing, taking in the resolute expressions. “As for the rest? They can embrace the gift we offer… or die.”

***

_9:29 Dragon, Drakonis 30_

_Cullen_

***

The ground was damp and soft underfoot on the Imperial Highway that traveled north along Lake Calenhad. Bright asters of purple and pink bloomed in sporadic patches throughout the meadows, their heads nodding lazily in the breeze. Their sweet scent mingled with the earthy tang of the thawing ground. It had been an uncharacteristically warm month, and as Drakonis drew to a close, birds had begun to return to Ferelden after their winter stay in the warmer climes of Antiva. 

A small contingent of armed men marched north, the newest, fully instated member of the Templar Order among them. They had traveled at a brisk march to Redcliffe, and were now skirting Lake Calenhad’s eastern border. A bead of sweat rolled from his brow down to the tip of his nose, tickling his skin as it went. He knew better than to remove his helm to wipe the offending droplet off, though—he had been tirelessly training for this day since his thirteenth nameday, and his discipline had been legendary in the Honnleath chantry, setting him apart from the other trainees. The bead of perspiration was only another distraction, easily ignored.

A breeze swirled around the travelers, and the young man tilted his head back, relishing the cool scent mixed with pine that wafted east from Lake Calenhad. Safely hidden behind his helmet, the corners of his lips curved up with a hint of a smile. A small amount of pride—that longtime nemesis of the templars—warmed his heart. The Revered Mother, her head held high with the same satisfaction a parent would have for a child, had informed him two nights earlier that he was the youngest recruit in her memory to become a full member of the Order. Some of his earliest memories had been dreams of this day, and he recalled how proud his family had been when he’d been accepted into the chantry as a boy. Now, years later, he was on his way to take up a post at Kinloch Hold: home to the mages of Ferelden.

It was a prestigious position, especially for one as untried as he—it was more common for new templars to be sent to other chantries throughout Ferelden and beyond to hone their skills and control before being entrusted with the keeping of mages. Countless stories had been told to him and his fellow recruits of the dangers of lowering one’s guard around a mage for even a moment. Only four years earlier, Ser Bryant had been sent to the Circle in Kirkwall, only to return to the Redcliffe chantry two months later, both his pride and body grievously wounded from a rebellious apprentice’s fire spell. More recently, a templar from Ostwick’s circle had been disbanded from the order altogether. Though no details had been given to any but the knight-commanders, rumors abounded that the man in question had been secretly fraternizing with one of the mages.

The soldier’s attention was brought back to the present as one of his superiors announced that they were nearing a small hamlet, the sole gateway to the circle tower. The boy was unperturbed that he could not see the lake or tower yet—in his evening studies he had learned that the westerly strip of forest would obscure their view until the highway turned west to face the lake. As the road declined sharply, the clamor of their plate metal became louder, and crows perched in the upper branches of the pine trees cawed their displeasure. The trees began to thin, and a thrill of anticipation rushed through the templar, forcing him to control his march so as not to give away his emotions. As the road turned sharply to the west, he got his first glimpse of the legendary Kinloch Hold.

The tower shot skyward, the top spire obscured by blinding sunlight. Vines crisscrossed over the grey façade, and the water-stained lower reaches suggested that in stormy weather, the fortress was battered by Lake Calenhad. At the moment, though, the waters were calm, and small waves lapped at the strip of sandy beach the templars stood upon. At one point, the Highway had stretched across the expanse of lake that separated the shore from Kinloch Hold, but years of neglect had eroded the massive walkway to a series of stone pillars that crumbled away more with each passing month. With the loss of access by foot, the only means of reaching the tower was now by a small boat that ferried between the hamlet and tower.  As they neared the docks, an aging man spat a gob of tobacco out and stood with surprising agility to greet the group. 

“Kester.” The leader of the group of templars greeted the ferryman by name, removing his helmet to reveal closely cropped dark hair. 

“Ah, Ser Bran. What was it, only ‘round about two weeks ago that I brought you across to this side?” Kester queried.

“Yes. We’ve returned with the newest member of the Order,” Bran said, gesturing to his left. The young man inclined his shrouded head in greeting.

“Ahh,” the ferryman nodded sagely, “it’s good to know there’ll be another one of you to keep an eye on those mages. Some of your brethren just got back with that runner you’ve been dealing with—Anders is his name, I think? Joked the entire ride across the lake with me… you’d have thought the black eye he was sporting didn’t bother him a whit.”

“Yes. Anders has been… troublesome,” Ser Bran intoned dryly. “I’m certain that the Knight-Commander will not be as lenient this time. This latest infraction is, I believe, his third offense of the year already.”

Kester chuckled and shook his head. “So, do you think this lad has what it takes to be one of the illustrious Circle Templars?”

“Time will tell. He comes highly recommended by both the Redcliffe branch and the Revered Mother.”  Bran’s voice conveyed nothing beyond basic information—the impassive tone of a veteran templar.

“Good!” The ferryman clapped his hands together and turned to his small craft. “Well, I know how ruthlessly efficient you gentlemen are, so I’ll get you across to the Hold and stop wagging my tongue.”

The boat rode low in the water with the combined weight of five men, four of which wore plate metal from head to toe. Kester kept up a steady stream of chatter with Ser Bran, who offered the occasional perfunctory response in return. The tower loomed closer, and the new recruit fought the urge to tilt his head skyward to soak in the view. Instead, he focused on the enormous set of doors that would lead to the interior of his new home. He knew that they would be immensely heavy, and monitored by a minimum of two templars at all hours to discourage mages such as this “Anders” to leave by conventional means. He wondered idly how this mage had managed to escape so many times—surely that was an impressive feat when this tower was as isolated as any he had heard of. He frowned, looking back at the shore, wondering how the mage had managed to cross the lake after making it out of the tower without detection. He made a mental note to spend a good portion of his personal time scouting out the tower for hidden entrances or other possible means of escape.

The boat nudged the side of the dock gently, and Kester roped off the boat as the templars clambered out. A hollow groan echoed across the beach as the enormous doors opened slowly outward to welcome the soldiers. Sweat began to break out across the recruit’s brow once again, this time from nervous excitement. 

Nods and a few words were exchanged between Ser Bran and the templars that held the doors. They were waved through, and the young man emerged into an enormous foyer—it reminded him a great deal of the main entrance hall of Redcliffe Castle, which he had only been in once when they had travelled to the domain of Arl Eamon for group training with the templars there. No carpets lined the floor, there was no decoration to speak of, and a draft left the room cold. Had he not known to expect this less-than-welcoming entrance, he may have been worried, but as it was, he knew that it was designed to maximize security from the inside, and this room doubled as an open expanse where the templars could dispel magic or smite a wayward mage without fear of crowds or obstacles. It was the first—and last—line of defense within the tower itself.

Their footsteps echoed loudly as they crossed the high-ceilinged chamber, and another templar opened a second set of barricaded doors. The hallway that they walked into was a complete change of atmosphere: torches placed in wall sconces cast dancing flames against the walls, and thick red rugs muffled the sound of their steel boots. As they walked, they passed several rooms on their right, each of which bore a carefully crafted plaque above the doorframe: Primal, Creation, Entropy, and Spirit.  These were the apprentice quarters, and each dormitory was named for one of the four schools of magic. As they marched by, the young man noticed that several of the doors creaked open to reveal curious faces glancing out as they passed, only to be withdrawn with hasty whispers and giggles. 

“The mages, as you have learned,” Ser Bran began, completely ignoring the tittering behind them, “are apprentices until they pass their Harrowing. All apprentices wear blue until they earn the gold of full mage. You can tell which dormitory an apprentice belongs in by the circlets on their upper left arms. All the circlets are gold, and hold a charm that is color-coded to the plaques of the dormitories—red flames for primal, green leaves for creation, blue rays for entropy, and a white sun for spirit.”

The recruit nodded his head in understanding, rapidly running over the information he had just been given and committing it to memory. It would not do to forget such critical information should he find an apprentice out of bed, and risk ridicule and shame to himself and the Order. 

As they continued, they entered an enormous library, the likes of which the man had never seen before.  He had immersed himself in the few books the Honnleath Chantry had to offer, but those fit on two shelves in the Revered Mother’s study. The bookcases here spanned wall-to-wall and reached to the ceiling. There were rolling ladders spaced throughout the room, and each shelf was crammed with tomes on various subjects.  A cursory glance showed that the open areas of the library served as study areas, and there were small rooms off to the sides that he supposed acted as classrooms. The musty smell of paper filled the air, and the man wondered if there were any templar-approved books in this staggering collection.

Three staircases, and many glances from the senior mages later, the entourage arrived at the fourth floor where the templar quarters were. From what the recruit could tell in passing, the rooms were modest and sparse, holding only the necessities that were befitting of a soldier with a duty to the Maker. At the end of the hall, an imposing man wearing full armor with the exception of a helm stood in front of a desk, his arms clasped behind his back and at attention. The group approached, and as one, brought their right fists to their hearts and gave a short bow.

“Knight-Commander,” Ser Bran greeted respectfully.

“Ser Bran. It is good to see you made it back,” the man intoned, gesturing for his men to be at ease. “I trust that your journey was without incident?”

“Indeed, ser.” Bran nodded, and motioned for the new recruit to step forward. “Allow me to introduce our newest member from the southern division, Ser Cullen Stanton Rutherford.”

“Ah, yes. Welcome to Kinloch Hold, Ser Cullen. I’ve heard good things about you. I am Knight-Commander Greagoir.”

Cullen dropped to one knee and removed his helm, as was expected of him. Short-cropped strawberry blonde curls lay flat against his head, and a dusting of stubble traced his jawline and chin. “It is an honor, knight-commander. I am at your disposal, and seek only to serve the Maker, through your direction, with distinction.” The traditionally-spoken words flowed from his lips with ease—the result of hours of practice in the pursuit of perfection.

“Then rise, Ser Cullen, and welcome to the ranks of the Kinloch Hold templars.”

Cullen rose, and was clapped on the back by the men who had accompanied him from Honnleath, and by the rest of the off-duty templars. He was led to the room that he would be sharing with two of the other novice templars, Erik and Warren. His small section of the room was comprised of a chaff mattress, a heavy wooden trunk, and an armor stand. Next to the bed was a small nightstand that held a lamp, his month’s ration of oil, and a well-worn copy of the Chant of Light. Picking up the heavy volume, Cullen thumbed lightly through the pages. He noticed that it was nearly as well-worn as his copy from Honnleath had been. The Canticles within—Threnodies, Trials, Benedictions— _these_ were the words that he would do well to remember and turn to while standing vigilant over the mages. Though templars were not allowed much in the way of material possessions, most carried a few trinkets as reminders of home. A hand-carved box made by his father had already been placed on his bed, and Cullen gently lifted the lid, allowing a small pang of homesickness to wash over him as he gazed upon the few contents within. His eyes flitted over his copy of the chant, which had been given to him by his mother when he’d joined the chantry was there, as was a stone chess piece given to him by his sister. His fingers grazed over the cool surface, then he gently shut the lid before placing the box under his bed. Rolling his shoulders, Cullen donned his helmet and strode out into the hallway.

***

That evening, Cullen found out that dinner was on a rotation. After evening lessons were over, the apprentices dined first along with roughly a third of the templars. They were followed by the full mages and senior enchanters in addition to another group of templars. The men who were posted throughout the tower during the first two meals ate last, and schedules changed for the templars on a monthly basis. As he ate with Erik and Warren, Cullen determined that the tower was marvelously organized, which suited him perfectly. 

It was the last day of Drakonis, and Cloudreach marked a new scheduling cycle. One of the Tranquil mages walked throughout their ranks, passing out rosters with duty assignments. It was no coincidence that Cullen had arrived when he did—he would be seamlessly integrated into the ranks, without any fuss.  Glancing over the parchment, Cullen found that he was scheduled as a Guardian for the level four Primal classes held each morning, he was to dine with the apprentices, and had overnight watch once a week. He also was to patrol the Adralla section of the library during afternoon and evening hours before and after dinner four days of the week. No additional training would be required until he had been at the tower for a full year—he had all the necessary knowledge to carry out his current tasks. After the first year trial period, he would be eligible for additional training for higher-ranked jobs. 

Glancing at the rowdy tables of apprentices, Cullen turned to his new bunkmates. “So, what is it like working here? How are the mages?”

Warren snorted into the bland cornmeal mash that he had been pushing around his plate. “They can be a right handful, I’ll tell you that much.”

_Are they out of control, here? I’d heard that Ferelden’s Circle Tower was generally well-controlled and there were relatively few issues compared to other Circles throughout Thedas._

Seeing Cullen’s raised brow, Erik elaborated. “Nothing _bad_ —well, aside from Anders’ occasional escape. Some people seem to think that the knight-commander is too soft on the mages here. Me? I don’t have a problem with the way things are run. The mages seem relatively content, and that leads to them being more manageable. Some of the younger ones, though, do like to play pranks, especially on the templars.  Watch your back, especially around that group.”

Cullen followed Erik’s gaze to a group of four mages, their heads close together as they chatted amongst themselves. All of them appeared to be somewhere around Cullen’s age, and would likely be eligible for their Harrowings soon. 

“Anders is normally the ringleader of their little club,” Warren said. “My guess is those four are probably working out how to sneak him some food later tonight. His punishment for his latest escape is scrubbing chamber pots for the next two weeks by hand, and missing his evening meal.”

“Isn’t the usual punishment for multiple escape attempts the Rite of Tranquility?” Cullen asked, surprised that this mage was getting away with little more than menial chores after openly challenging the templars’ authority.

Erik rolled his eyes. “Yes. Like I said, though, some people think the knight-commander’s too soft on the mages. Apparently, First Enchanter Irving believes that Anders isn’t actually dangerous, just going through a rebellious phase. Load of mabari shit if you ask me.”

Cullen didn’t answer as he glanced back at the group of apprentices in question. He wondered what types of tricks they liked to pull, and was confident that _he_ would never fall prey to such childish games. As the bell sounded the end of dinner, Cullen rose with his comrades and left the dining hall. Intent on visiting the small chapel to pray before he retired for the evening, he didn’t notice the azure eyes that were fixed on his retreating form. They danced with the flickering candlelight, and promised mischief.


	2. Chapter 2

_Dragon 9:29, Cloudreach 1_

_Amell_

Solona Amell had lived in the tower longer than she could remember. Her life before was little more than snippets of half-forgotten memories—her mother’s long, brown hair, the sweet scent of honeysuckle perfume, the smooth glide of silken sheets on bare skin. Although she barely remembered coming to the tower, she thought that was for the best. Many of her friends had been older than she when they arrived, and their resentment burned stronger with each day. Rejected by parents, or torn from their families by the templars, many continued to struggle with bitter memories of their previous lives.  

Life in the tower was pleasant enough so long as the rules were adhered to, although some of the other apprentices fought her every time she voiced her opinions on life at Kinloch Hold. The beds were moderately comfortable, lessons were usually enjoyable, and best of all, she had a group of good friends she was inseparable from. They were all currently sitting in their afternoon creation class, and Solona allowed her attention to wander from Enchanter Elora who was droning on about the best ways to cast various glyphs of protection.

Solona’s oldest friend, Neria Surana, sat next to her, and was paying careful attention to every word said—she had always been a model student, though her magic wasn’t as naturally powerful as some of the others’. However, what she lacked in raw strength, she made up for with unparalleled dedication. Neria had come to the circle the same year as she, and was as reserved as Solona was outgoing. She had arrived from the Denerim alienage at a young age, and it had taken weeks for Solona to even get her to talk to her. She was small, even for an elf, and her short blonde hair only served to emphasize her delicate features. Although Neria was the least inclined of the group to bend rules, she had a knack for suggesting some of the more creative ideas that would undoubtedly agitate the templars.

Sitting in the front row of the classroom was Petra, who nodded vigorously at every statement the instructor made, all while glancing around with a haughty expression. Though Petra had been close to Solona for years, she had grown more distant of late. The previous month, Solona had been in the library when she overheard one of the senior enchanters mention that Petra would be the next apprentice to go through the Harrowing. Filled with excitement for her friend, she had told Petra that very night what she’d heard, not anticipating the change that would come over her. Petra, anticipating the ordeal to come any night now, had thrown herself into her studies, staunchly refusing to take part in any more “childish games.” Though Solona thought her heart was in the right place, she didn’t appreciate that the red-head now seemed to think better of herself, simply because she was two years older and anticipating becoming a full mage. With a wry smile, Solona pondered how unbearable she’d become once she successfully completed her Harrowing.

Jowan and Anders sat next to one another in the row directly in front of Solona. Their heads were bent low as they chuckled over some shared joke Solona wasn’t privy to; clearly both were _absolutely_ devout in their studies.

_Not that Anders_ needs _any help in this subject.  He’s easily the best healer in the class—better even than many of the full mages we know!_

It was really quite lucky that Anders was so naturally gifted, as he spent many of his evening study hours atoning for his various transgressions. He was a merciless tease to all of his friends, and was by far the most outspoken against the tower and its rules. Although Jowan was a year older than Anders, he revered the casually-confident blonde, and soaked in Anders’ many tales of what life could be like outside the tower. They were all particularly interested to hear what Anders had done during his latest escape, even though he had only been gone for three days before the templars inevitably caught up with him.

“Apprentice Amell?” 

Solona’s head whipped up from her idle doodling in the corner of her vellum at the sound of Elora’s impatient voice. “I’m sorry, Enchantress, what was the question?”

Elora pushed a stray piece of red hair aside, arching an eyebrow in annoyance. “I said: what sort of glyph would I inscribe should I wish to physically knock someone back?”

“Repulsion.” Solona reminded herself to thank Neria for forcing her into studying last night. 

“Correct.” Elora’s sour tone conveyed her disappointment that Solona had gotten the answer right, even though her attention had been elsewhere. “Jowan? Would you please demonstrate the placing of this glyph to protect oneself?”

Solona groaned, rubbing her temples with two fingers while she watched Anders shaking with silent laughter as their dark-haired friend rose to approach the front of the room. Jowan had never been particularly strong; he lacked the subtle touch required for protection spells such as this, which usually resulted in them going horrifically awry.

“Anders, if you find this so amusing, perhaps you’ll volunteer to approach your friend and demonstrate the effects of this spell once he has cast the glyph?” Elora had clearly spotted Anders’ mirth.

As he rose, Anders winked at Solona, cocky as ever. “This should be rich!”

Jowan’s expression was panicked as he began to draw upon his mana—Solona could feel the shift of power center toward him as he did so. He pushed the pale green light away from himself onto the ground, and the glowing seven-point star was visible for only a moment before he was blasted off of his feet. He flew backward, landing hard in a pile of scrolls that was stacked in the opposite corner of the room. Anders doubled over, howling with laughter as Jowan disentangled himself from the paper, tossing scrolls aside as he went and keeping his bright red face downturned. Solona just shook her head—this was nothing less than she had expected.

Solona just made out Petra’s smirk before she masked it behind a look of cool concern as Elora swept across the room towards the apprentice, waving her hand at the silent templar who had begun to head for Jowan as well.

“Fool boy! How many times have I told all of you to project the force of magic in this spell _away_ from you?” Elora’s red hair was in disarray, and her eyes flashed with irritation. “I suppose you focused everything right into your toes, did you? This isn’t a personal offense spell—consider what would happen if you paralyzed yourself with a glyph—you’d be trapped within your own spell, offered up on a silver platter for your enemy to finish you off at their leisure!”

Gasping for breath between laughs, Anders managed to choke out, “Well, at least this had the _potential_ to be effective, Enchantress—he blasted himself out of the way!”

Elora narrowed her eyes at Anders. “Well, apprentice, why don’t you show us how it’s done, then?”

With a dramatic sigh, and far more hand-waving than was necessary, Anders released his own thread of power to leave a glimmering green design on the floor that surrounded him. With a wicked grin, he slowly raised his arms, encouraging the glyph to slowly expand outward, encompassing a larger radius.  Solona rolled her eyes at her friend’s ostentatious display, knowing full-well that he was simply antagonizing their instructor at this point. 

“Care to test it to make sure I cast it correctly, Enchantress Elora?” Anders asked innocently, showing no outward sign that the spell was taking any toll on him.

Elora took a halting step back and shook her head, scowling at him. “That will do, Anders. In fact, you will help your friend with this spell.” She bobbed her head in the direction of Jowan, who was brushing off his robes. “If he is still unable to cast a satisfactory glyph of repulsion by this time next week, you will both be assigned additional work.” 

A chime mercifully indicated the end of the lesson, and they all headed for the library to while away the last hour before Anders had to leave for his cleaning duties and the rest of them went to dinner.

“So where exactly did you go _this_ time, Anders,” Solona asked, casually looping her arm through his as they walked. She noticed that Jowan was still in a foul mood, and hoped that she could distract Anders from poking any additional fun at him.

“Oh, nowhere too exciting. I was hoping to make it further east than I did last year, but no such luck.” Anders spoke louder as they approached one of the templars who stood watch outside of the library. “For being rather dim-witted, these templar fellows can actually move pretty quickly. Their lovely little anti-mage tricks are a bit unfair, though.” 

The shrouded guard gave no indication that he had heard Anders.

“These fellows,” Anders said with a shake of his head to Neria, who glided silently at his other side, “absolutely no sense of humor. Must be terribly dull for them. Good thing they have us to spice up their chantry-riddled lives!”

They entered a small enclave in the corner of the library that was as well-hidden from prying eyes as they could get. “Speaking of excitement,” Solona said, a glint of mischief in her eye, “I actually have the perfect target for our next round of Torment the Templar.”

“Ugh. Are you _still_ insisting on this juvenile behavior?” Petra cut in with a patronizing glare. “ _Some_ of us have much more important things to do. Excuse me.” They watched her stalk off. Solona was still shocked that the girl who had been in full support of mischief only a few months ago had completely changed in the face of her Harrowing. 

“So, who’s the lucky guy this time?” Jowan asked, rubbing the hip that he had fallen on. Though he still sounded whiny over the glyph incident, his voice had lost an edge of bitterness.

“Well, I don’t know what his name is, but I heard some of the others saying that he arrived at the tower only yesterday. I saw him at dinner last night.”  

Neria smiled and spoke softly. “He seemed awfully serious, even for a templar. I don’t think I saw him smile even once!”

“Well,” said Anders, rubbing his hands together, “I think I have the perfect way to welcome our somber friend to the circle.” He paused for dramatic effect before holding one finger up and declaring, “The Gauntlet.”

Jowan groaned. “Come on, Anders. The last time we tried that out, we almost got caught!”

“Well what’s the fun if there’s no danger?” Anders quipped. “Plus, those solitary cells in the basement really aren’t all that bad! The rats down there are quite friendly, actually.”

Neria pursed her lips and frowned at the image, and Solona stopped herself from smiling—she couldn’t picture her quiet, graceful friend ever being subjected to such living conditions.

“Come on, it’s been years since we’ve tried the Gauntlet,” Solona said to Jowan. “I think we’re long overdue to give it another try. Plus, we’ve got so many more ideas than we did back when we were young, carefree, and innocent.” She grinned at Neria’s incredulous expression. “Well, more innocent than we are now, in any case.”

“It’s settled, then!” Anders declared, whipping out a piece of vellum. “Let’s outline our plan. We’ll first need some way of knowing his schedule…”

***

Anders was confident that acquiring the unwary templar’s schedule would be easy. Two years earlier, he had discovered a concealed tunnel in the storeroom caverns that led to a shaft in the precise center of the tower. 

Upon reaching the potion-crafting room, Neria had distracted the attendant long enough for Solona to slip into the caverns. She had wound her way past all of the barrels and crates that held mass quantities of elfroot, deathroot, spindleweed, and many other crafting materials. Her nose tingling from the multitude of aromas assailing her senses, Solona squeezed past the small, dimly-lit fissure, and jogged through the musty pathway. When she arrived in the enormous, hollow center of the tower, she followed the spiraling path up until she could go no further. Pressing her ear against the sliding panel, she listened for the sound of footsteps before slipping out and finding herself in one of the templar rooms. 

After years of troublemaking, Solona and her friends knew the templars’ shift changes by heart, and she judged that she only had a few minutes to snoop around before any of them returned to their quarters. She crept out into the hallway, and ran down to the furthest room from the knight-commander’s office, her soft shoes making no sound on the unforgiving stone floor. Assuming that the smallest room was reserved for the newest members of the Order, Solona glanced around quickly, noting that there were only three beds in the room. 

_One of these is probably for the man I saw last night, and the other two for the friends he ate with._

A shock of white caught her eye—there was a piece of paper set upon one of the nightstands. Looking over it, she grinned with triumph: it was the schedule she was looking for. The name “Ser Cullen” printed at the top meant little to her, but what seasoned templar would feel the need to consult their schedule? This must be it!

With her prize neatly folded and tucked into her robes, all she needed was to make her quiet escape. As she walked into the corridor, the hall door creaked open. She jerked up her chin as deep voices carried down the echoing hall. Cursing under her breath, she sprinted to the previous room and groped for the panel.

_Andraste’s unmentionables—it’s got to be around here somewhere!_

It was no good. The approaching templars were nearly to the room. Out of desperation, Solona dove behind the closest nightstand and curled into as small of a space as she could, praying that by some miracle she wouldn’t be seen. From the sound of it, two templars entered the room, chatting about news they had just received from Denerim.

Solona bit down on her trembling knuckles, desperately fighting the urge to cast a concealment charm. She knew better than to do that—if she were to attempt any sort of spell here, in the templar’s own safe haven, they would cleanse all magic from the area without a second thought, and she would be found and subjected to Maker only knew what sort of punishment. She could hear their armor clanking on the ground, and with a trembling hand, she felt along the wall once more.

Her fingers felt the unmistakably straight flaw of a crack, and a cool draft hit her hand. There it was! She slid the panel open and clambered none-too-quietly in before shutting it behind her. From behind the screen she could just make out one of the men asking, “You hear something? No? Must be my mind playing tricks on me, again.”

Her heart beat erratically against her chest, and Solona sucked in deep breaths of air as she slid down the wall to calm her nerves. As the fire of adrenaline racing through her veins faded, she stood to travel through the tunnels once again to find Anders, Neria, and Jowan.

***

Two mornings later, their first plan was set in place. 

They stood just inside their Primal classroom after morning meal, waiting for the junior templar to come down the hall. Although he was new to the tower, he was every bit as punctual and predictable as his brothers: he came through the door from the upper levels precisely as the chime sounded, signifying that it was time to head to morning classes, and he was standing watch just outside of the classroom door well before all of the apprentices had taken their seats.

The previous night they had scouted out the area for their first prank of the Gauntlet. Fewer templars had roamed the halls, and most of their companions had either retired for the evening or were anxiously awaiting the last chime as they stood over the last few mages wrapping up their nighttime studies. The Gauntlet would consist of one prank for each of the next five days, and all of them had high hopes for their potential success this time. The last time that they had attempted this feat, their ideas had been less creative, there was less risk of being caught, and their efforts were halted over increasing suspicion after only three days—this time, they planned to start off small, and build from there.

Solona and Anders had tinkered with several of the spells they knew for the past few nights, and had finally come up with what they called a “Glyph of Wording”. They had all left the morning meal early, and dashed off to their classroom. There was a designated area just outside of the door for each guardian during class times, and Solona and Anders rushed there, fighting back incapacitating fits of giggling. Neria and Jowan stood watch at either end of the hall.

Anders cast a modified glyph of repulsion of his own design onto the spot the unwary templar would soon stand. Before the white markings faded, Solona drew into the warm pool of mana within, inscribing a stream of bright blue words into the glyph. They stood, anxiously awaiting the light’s disappearance before walking into the classroom along with Jowan and Neria. As the rest of their classmates began to file in, Solona glanced back. Seeing a glint of armor as the templar rounded the corner, she turned back to face the front of the room once again, fighting the smile that seemed permanently affixed to her face.

Though primal spells normally held her interest with ease, Solona couldn’t wait until the chime sounded to signify the end of the class. She had furtively glanced back more times than she could count, attempting to see whether the templar had noticed anything yet, or, if in fact the spell had even worked. At long last, they were excused from the lesson. Solona glanced meaningfully at Neria, who dropped her pile of scrolls and books to the classroom floor. They all stooped to help her ‘mishap,’ and looked up just in time to see the oblivious templar turn away. 

There, on the back of his flawlessly polished armor, brilliant red words announced: “Ser Poo-A-Lot.”

 

 

 

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

_Dragon 9:29, Cloudreach 12_

_Cullen_

Cullen was still suffering the aftermath of the mischief that had befallen him. Although it had been nearly two weeks since that incident, a few of his less mature comrades would still utter the occasional “Hail, Ser Stinky!” as he passed, and hearty laughter from templar and mage alike would invariably follow. Luckily, it seemed that most of the novelty seemed to have worn off, especially seeing as just that morning one of the young apprentices had managed to catch his robes on fire. Panicking, the boy had conjured a poorly-controlled water spell, and had squelched around the halls in sopping wet clothing until he had been able to rush back to his dormitory during the noon meal to don a fresh set of robes.

Grimacing, Cullen recalled how he had found out about his own misfortune, and wished that his had been as obvious as fire or water.

_Anxious to return to his quarters for a brief meditation before the noon bell denoted shift changes, Cullen had left his post of the morning primal class in a rush. He ignored the giggling of the four apprentices who walked out of the classroom after helping their friend retrieve fallen books and parchment, his mind already in his room with the Canticles._

_As he strode through the curving hallways, an unusual amount of laughter and pointing followed him, and his steps hitched as doubt crept into his mind._

_Had he forgotten his helmet? Was there something stuck to his boot that was trailing along behind him? Was a mage following in his wake and pulling faces?_

_He surreptitiously checked for each of these things, but nothing seemed amiss. Recalling what his peers had told him, Cullen assumed that these apprentices were just trying to have a bit of fun—apparently, many of them got an unreasonable level of satisfaction out of taunting their stoic guards in an attempt to get some sort of reaction from the templars. Certain that this was the cause for the unexplainable commotion, Cullen continued to walk towards his quarters briskly, holding his head high and determined to ignore the vexing youth in the hallway._

_He arrived in his room shortly after, the antics from the lower floors all but forgotten. Removing his helm, Cullen ran a hand through his short hair, relishing the feel of cool, fresh air on his scalp. With a quick greeting to Warren who sat on his own bed, Cullen turned to place his helm on its stand before he knelt to pray. Before he could even bow his head in reverence, though, Warren cried out with a snort of laughter._

_“Maker Almighty! What in the Void happened to you?”_

_Confused, Cullen had turned to look at his brunette bunkmate, whose dark brown eyes twinkled with amusement. Warren’s arm outstretched and he pointed straight at Cullen’s torso._

_“What do you mean? Nothing’s happened to me,” Cullen snapped._

_With a shake of his head and lips curved in a grin, Warren elaborated. “You may want to take off your armor and look at that, uh—_ marking— _before going down to lunch.”_

_With a bemused expression, Cullen removed his breastplate and unbuckled the straps that held his back plate in place. Turning it around, he almost dropped it to the floor when he saw the bright red letters that proclaimed his disgrace. Cullen felt a rush of heat climb up his neck, and knew he had found the reason for the apprentices’ merriment earlier._

_“Oh, Maker… no…” he moaned before running off to the washroom in an attempt to scrub the shimmering characters off his gear, only to find that they seemed impervious to water and soap. He hesitated before using the abrasive scrubbing brushes he was certain would leave scratches on the shining metal, but tried even those in his crazed state. After conceding defeat, he entered the knight-commander’s quarters and showed the armor to his superior, his head hanging in shame. With an amused sort of expression, Greagoir sent him to see the first enchanter. As he exited the room, Cullen could have sworn he heard a laugh hastily disguised as a cough._

_First Enchanter Irving seemed to be no less amused than Greagoir, and cleared the words on Cullen’s armor with a wave of his hand. A cool rush of air accompanied the white flash of light, and Cullen restrained his instinct to cleanse the area of magic. As he turned to leave, though, the enchanter spoke in a kind tone. “My dear boy, don’t waste your time fretting over this little bit of troublemaking—why, if you knew what the knight-commander endured when he first came to Kinloch Hold, you’d think that this was positively tame!”_

_Feeling significantly better, Cullen thanked the first enchanter again and took his leave. He was sure that with the prompt cleaning of his armor there would be no fuss over what had happened. He was wrong._

***

With the exception of the armor incident—the culprits of whom still remained at large—Cullen had settled into his routine at the tower nicely. He got along well with the templars that he’d had the chance to meet, and the knight-commander had discouraged any mocking of Cullen while he was present with a stern look and disapproving frown.

The tower itself had proven to be very easy to navigate, and Cullen rapidly fell into his routine. Although it seemed as though he’d misplaced the parchment with his duties, he remembered his schedule and found the return to orderly and regimented days refreshing after the days spent walking across the countryside from weeks before. Every morning he rose and offered prayer to the Maker, and spent time meditating prior to the midday meal. His late prayers were his favorite time of day, though—after the library closed and all apprentices were back in their dormitories, the templars not guarding the main doors or mages’ quarters were welcome to come to the small chapel in the tower and receive blessings and hear the Chant. 

Many of the younger templars that were no longer required to attend a daily service opted out in favor of relaxing or sparring, but Cullen hadn’t missed one yet. The voices of the initiates and sisters of their small chantry spoke the familiar words, and their soothing tone washed over Cullen each night as if to cleanse any wrongdoings of the day away. He always left feeling as though he had been plunged into cool, clear spring water that washed away not only the grime of the day, but also pollution of his mind and spirit.

It was this service that Cullen was anxiously awaiting that evening. He stood at his post in the library, fingering the worn copy of the Chant he had tucked in his belt, and waited for the few mages and apprentices that remained within the musty chambers to finish. At the main table to his left, a mage and apprentice began packing up their books, and Cullen quelled his impatience. As soon as the pair had gone, Cullen began to walk his rounds of the library to check for any who were still studying. The clock began to chime, indicating that all apprentices needed to head back to their rooms for the night.

As he rounded one of the tall bookcases, Cullen saw flickering orange light on the wall of an archway that led to a small enclave for private studying—he surmised that the stuttering light was likely from a dying candle. Upon peering into the small room, he saw the back of a female apprentice, her figure hunched over a roll of parchment and several large tomes opened on the desk around her papers. Dark hair spilled like ink across her shoulders and down her back, and by the fevered pace of quill upon vellum, she was clearly intent on finishing her work before leaving.

Anxious not to miss any of his evening devotionals, Cullen spoke with a soft but firm tone. “Excuse me, apprentice, but it is time for you to leave the library for the evening. You will be permitted to return two bells before first lessons in the morning.”

The girl whipped around, startled by his declaration, and all thoughts of the evening Chant were expelled from his mind. There seemed to be something wrong with his chest—his heart unwilling to drum an even beat from the moment he saw the apprentice’s face. Never before had Cullen perceived such a vision of true beauty—this mage’s face surely possessed the loveliness that sculptors toiled—and failed—to represent in the carven faces of Andraste. Her plain blue robes did more for this woman than if she had been adorned in silks and jewels worthy of Lady Isolde herself, the indigo color illuminating her face brighter than any star in the sky. Her wide, blue eyes were framed by waves of that cascading hair, and for an instant Cullen’s hand twitched with the impulsive desire to run his fingers through those thick tresses. 

Unsure of how long he had been captivated by this image of perfection, Cullen cleared his throat with the intent of repeating his earlier statement. Meeting her gaze, however, was a mistake—it was impossible to think while trapped in those azure depths. His mind in turmoil, Cullen was saved from making the first move after these moments of silent staring. Her head cocked to the side, as if trying to recall whether or not she had seen the templar before, and pale pink lips curved up into a smile that hinted at some secret joke known only to her. Her musical voice broke the spell he was under.

“I apologize, ser, it appears that I lost track of the time. I’ll take my leave.” With an incline of her head, and those mysterious eyes alight with playful fire, she pulled together her belongings and sailed past him and out the door. 

His head roiling, Cullen rapidly checked the rest of the cavernous library for other studious apprentices, and finding no others, he took his leave. Barely acknowledging the nod of greeting of one of his brothers standing watch in the halls, Cullen swept through the hallways, intent on reaching the chantry for the evening service. None of his training had prepared him for _this_ —at most, mages were to be regarded with a level of respect and treated with caution. Having feelings—no matter how fleeting—for one touched by the Fade was strictly forbidden.

As he neared the chantry, he reached for his book of verses, only to find it missing.

_Blast! It must have slipped out of my belt before I left the library. I can’t believe I didn’t notice it was gone earlier—this is what comes from getting distracted by a pretty pair of eyes._

Cullen inwardly cursed his weakness, and realizing he did not have time to retrieve it without coming late and disrupting the service, Cullen entered and knelt at a pew, his head bowed and hands grasped tightly together. 

_I think I need to pray_.

***

_Dragon 9:29, Cloudreach 13_

***

Cullen had slept poorly, his dreams haunted by flowing dark hair, fathomless blue eyes, and soft and slender fingers entwined with his own calloused ones. His morning devotions were stilted and he prayed for forgiveness for his weakness and the insincerity of his words, and his morning meal was tasteless as it passed his lips. Anxious to get away from the noise of the dining hall, Cullen left to guard the morning primal class, hoping that his daily routine would take the vision of his temptress from his mind.

As the apprentices began to file in several agonizing minutes later, Cullen finally felt the tension from his shoulders ease away, and he began to recite his favorite verses in his head. 

_Blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter. Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just. Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow.  In their blood the Maker’s will is written…”_

As he opened his eyes, any level of peace that he had attained from reciting those few verses of Benedictions was destroyed when he saw the next group of apprentices enter the room. 

She was there. She—the mage who had haunted his dreams and nearly shattered his cool façade the night before—was in Primal Level Four. 

_How have I never noticed her before?_

As she sashayed by with three other apprentices— _surely she has never walked quite so… provocatively before_ —Cullen forced his gaze to remain straight, but his resolve was very nearly broken again at her sly grin and wink as she passed. Struggling to maintain his even breathing, he began to recite Benedictions once again, his inner voice stumbling over the words just as a child might.

When the bell rang, Cullen braced himself once again, determined to neither look at nor think about the woman who continued to dominate his conscious thoughts. As the apprentices left, and Enchantress Elora bid him good day, Cullen left for his quarters, determined to redeem himself over his half-hearted morning prayers. Hushed voices caused him to pause, though, and he turned with trepidation to see none other than the girl from the night before still in the room. She and her three friends were crowded around a crumpled piece of parchment, and all were shaking with laughter. 

Steeling himself for the confrontation he was now dreading, Cullen strode into the classroom to remind the four of them that they were due for midday meal and were not to tarry in the lesson rooms. At his approach, the tallest boy who Cullen already knew to be the notorious Anders snatched the piece of vellum off the table and slid it into his sleeve. Though puzzled by this behavior, Cullen brushed it off and readied himself to speak to the group, only to be cut off by the girl.

“Sorry, Ser Cullen, we’re just leaving! Have a pleasant day!”

The soft nuances of her voice tumbled through his ears, and as the four of them scurried towards the exit, Cullen watched her retreating form, once again entranced by her before leaving for his quarters. It wasn’t until much later that day that he realized she had known his name.

Cullen tossed his helm on his bed as he entered, but paused before picking it up and replacing it gently onto its stand. As he knelt down to pray, a brown book on his nightstand caught his attention—it was his book of verses.

Although he had looked for it that morning in the library, it was nowhere to be found. Somehow, it had found its way back to his bunk. Cullen ran the tips of trembling fingers over the smooth leather cover, worn soft from years of use. A white corner peeked out from underneath, and he pulled out a torn piece of vellum to see neatly printed words flowed across the sheet.

_You shouldn’t leave something like this just lying about… Anybody could find it!_

_-S_

Cullen arched an eyebrow at the brief note, confused as to why the good person who had returned it hadn’t simply written their full name.

_“S?” Ser Stephen, perhaps? No, the writing is decidedly feminine… perhaps it was Ser Serena or Ser Senna._

Peering closer at the note, as if nearness would divulge its secrets, Cullen caught a faint whiff of honeysuckle, the sweet, fresh scent reminding him of his mother’s gardens. Giving himself a shake to clear the saccharine aroma, Cullen knelt to pray, fingers still tracing the spine of his returned book.

***

The rest of the day passed with agonizing slowness for Cullen, his mind in turmoil over both the mysterious return of his book and the young apprentice that had caught hold of his attention so completely. By the time dinner came around, he was thoroughly exhausted and dreading his evening guard duty at the library.

_Will_ she _be there? Can I handle seeing her again?_

Warren and Erik must have noticed how withdrawn he was at dinner, for they kept up a steady stream of joking, elbowing him frequently in an attempt to get him to laugh along with them. He stole a glance up while the two of them were distracted, and regretted it immediately—it seemed that there was no hiding from this sinfully beautiful woman today. She sat with her back to them, eating with her same group of friends from the morning class, but there was no mistaking her rich, dark hair. How he had never noticed the hypnotizing way that its highlights danced in the candlelight before, Cullen was not sure, but the burning in his cheeks from simply seeing her again made him want to retreat beneath his helm before the meal was over.

He shoveled the last of the meal into his mouth, his tongue not registering any of its taste or texture, and muttered a hasty farewell to his bemused bunkmates through the slop still in his mouth. As he left for the library early, Cullen straightened his back and slowed his stride, determined to maintain the level of decorum expected of a templar of the circle.

After reaching his post in the library well before any of the apprentices or mages arrived for their evening studying, Cullen groped for his book, and flipped through the verses until he reached Threnodies. Losing himself to the words, he finally began to relax. As soft chatter began to float through the room, Cullen put his book away and went through the familiar motions of patrolling the musty rooms, his boots echoing softly against the high, stone ceilings.

Later that night, Cullen was absently reading the titles of the books on the shelf he stood next to when the chime alerted late-night studiers that they had only ten minutes before curfew was in effect. Hearing the scraping of chairs on the stone floor and smelling the smoke from snuffed candles, Cullen knew that the occupants of the library were preparing to leave. He walked through, hurrying along any of the apprentices or mages who were unwilling to leave just yet, and had very nearly forgotten about the object of his fascination until he was about to leave for evening worship himself.

She stood there, leaning casually against the doorframe, three heavy tomes in her arms and a hint of a smile on that angelic face. Cullen was lost once again, and felt his throat constrict as he approached her. Not trusting his voice, Cullen held out an arm, gesturing for her to precede him out of the library, but her smile just deepened.

“Hello.” Her voice washed over him, and a shiver cascaded down the flesh of his arms.

Was she actually talking to him? Surely he must have committed a terrible sin indeed to warrant punishment from the Maker in the form of this alluring woman.

“The library is closing…er, if you don’t mind, apprentice.” Cullen’s normally self-assured voice stumbled over the words, but if the goddess before him noticed, she gave no indication. With eyes twinkling in the dim light, she regarded him intently before speaking.

“My name is Solona… Solona Amell.” 

Cullen silently rolled the unfamiliar name silently across his tongue. Unsure of what to say in response, he grasped for words for a moment before simply gesturing for her to leave once more. She glanced behind her, and Cullen followed her gaze, certain that he had heard the soft patter of footsteps on the carpeted floor. A cool breeze swirled around him, and he wondered where the draft had come from.  Seeing nothing that could have caused the disturbance, and no longer hearing anything in the library, Cullen turned back to Solona.

“I’m sorry miss, but it is time to leave.”

She inclined her head, and with an even larger smile than before and an odd glint in her impossibly blue eyes, she darted off. Hearing a trill of laughter from her and a muttered reply from someone else, Cullen realized that the footsteps he’d heard must have been her friends in the hall waiting for her.  

As he walked through the now deserted halls on his way to the evening Chant, Cullen’s throat felt oddly tight—he wondered if he had taken ill. Its sudden onset was confusing, and it seemed unlike any other sickness he’d had in the past: there was no pain, but it rather seemed as though a coating of _something_ had appeared in his throat. It was cool as stream water and seemed to flow up and down the length of his vocal cords, their lengths thrumming as though desiring to be exercised. Shaking his head at the odd sensation, Cullen entered the chapel and respectfully removed his helm and gauntlets. 

The very air around him seemed to crackle, and he thirsted for the recitation of the chant to begin. Finally, the initiates and sisters slowly entered through a side door, each carrying either a candle or thurible of incense. As the women began to recite the ancient words, Cullen felt the cold fire well up in his throat, and he joined in with the other templars who were present that evening.

_… They are sinners, who have given their love to false gods._

_Magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him._

Cullen took the words to heart this night—surely the apprentice whose memory had consumed him these past hours had ruled over _him_ with the aid of some unknown form of magic; what other reason could there be for his apparent fascination?

_Foul and corrupt are they who have taken His gift and turned it against His children._

_They shall be named Maleficar, accursed ones._

_They shall find no rest in this world or beyond._

The words seemed to enflame Cullen. Surely one as lovely and seemingly innocent as she could never be considered Maleficar? He continued to recite the words from memory along with the rest.

_All men are the work of our Maker’s Hands…._

Silence fell over all who were gathered. Cullen sat stunned. What had just happened? All eyes were turned on him, and he realized that the sudden—and deeply inappropriate—outburst had come from his own lips. When he had said the word “Maker,” something else entirely had come out. Had he in fact just shouted at the top of his voice “Big Man on High”? His heartbeat was traitorously loud in the silent room, the only sound the soft flickering of candle flames. The sharp tang of incense caused his nostrils to itch, and Cullen fought the urge to sneeze. Realizing that he was standing, Cullen quickly knelt down again and murmured a hasty apology. With a look of disgust at Cullen, the sister in charge of the evening services resumed the chant.

_From the lowest slaves to the highest kings._

_Those who bring harm without provocation to the least of His children are hated and accursed by the **Big Man on High!**_

Again! What was happening to him? Cullen found himself on his feet without realizing that he had surged to them once again, this time a fist held aloft in rapture. He felt the stares of those assembled focus on him again, their expressions ranging from amusement to fury. 

“I’m so sorry, Sister,” Cullen said as he knelt once more. “I really have no idea what is happening to me this evening.”

The chantry sister regarded him coolly before answering crisply. “If you cannot refrain from these… outbursts, Ser Cullen, I’m afraid that we will have to ask you to leave us in peace until you have gained control over yourself.”

“Of course, Sister. My apologies, Sister, it won’t happen again.” The chant began again.

_Those who bear false witness and work to deceive others, know this:_

_There is but one Truth._

Cullen could feel that cold pressure building in the back of his throat once more. The Maker’s name was coming up again… it would be best to leave now before risking another episode. He stood quietly and began to walk out.

_All things are known to our **BIG MAN ON HIGH!**_

Cullen was so shocked that he stopped dead at the words he had spoken. Why had they come out?  He hadn’t even tried to say “Maker” aloud that time! Without turning to see the furious expression on the sister’s face, Cullen fled, his feet taking him straight to the office of the first enchanter.

 


	4. Chapter 4

_Dragon 9:29, Cloudreach 28_

_Amell_

It was the first warm day of the season. Temperate breeze from Lake Calenhad wafted through the windows of the library that had been thrown open, the faint scent of daffodils tickling the senses of the apprentice who sat watching the templars sparring in the courtyard below.

Solona had been reluctant to pursue any more pranking after their last, glorious ruse from weeks earlier—Cullen had been banned from evening services for a week, and he’d taken to eating meals in his room. All-in-all, she was feeling rather badly for putting the poor recruit through so much—although, admittedly, she would _never_ forget the look of horror on his face as he fled to the first enchanter’s office that fateful night.

While the faint sound of chatter from the men drifted up from the courtyard below, Solona stared at the lapping waves on the shore and twisted the bracelet on her wrist, her thoughts wandering aimlessly. The simple piece of jewelry had been one of the only items from her previous life that remained with her—she’d been too small as a child to wear the token, and even now the intricately woven strands of silver ivy rode loosely on her slender arm. Though she didn’t remember the mother who had sent it with her, Solona liked to think that maybe this faceless woman had cared enough to bestow this small piece of affection on her daughter before she’d been taken to the tower.

Shouts and clashing metal brought her attention back to the present. Glancing down, she saw that Cullen had been called upon to spar next. She shifted in her seat to afford herself the best view possible—for some reason, the young templar intrigued her more than any other ever had. There was something about his hesitant assertions of authority and bashful comments that… endeared him to her.

Cullen was circling another of the newer recruits that Solona couldn’t place a name to, both of their helms removed and heavy plate armor switched out for light leather padding. With a yell, the other man charged forward at Cullen, all brawn and little finesse as far as Solona could discern. She smirked with satisfaction as the blonde man side-stepped the brutish charge, parrying the short-sword thrust with ease. This game of cat and mouse continued for some time, and soon Cullen’s opponent grew obviously tired, a scowl plastered on his drenched face. 

From her vantage point, Solona barely made out his challenge. “Come at me, you nimble little arse, and stop dancing around like a bleeding elf—if you dare.”

Cullen darted forward with surprising speed for a man of his build. Solona watched the play of muscles in his arms with appreciation—and no small amount of embarrassment—as he moved to engage his opponent once more. Within moments, Cullen had deflected the man’s blade with his own, the force enough to knock it from his hands. With the point of a practice sword angled at his face, there was little the brunette could do but concede defeat. 

Solona smiled to herself. _Well, well—it looks as though he isn’t just another pretty face, after all._

Watching Cullen chivalrously offer a hand to his fallen comrade, Solona jumped at a tap on her shoulder. She turned with wide eyes to see Anders’ grinning face, his shoulders shaking with ill-concealed laughter.

“Don’t _do_ that, Anders! You know I hate it when you sneak up on me.” 

He ignored her, instead moving to stand beside her seat. “What’s caught your attention so thoroughly that you didn’t hear me coming, huh?” He leaned out of the open window, and, seeing the templars standing below, a wicked grin stole onto his face. “No way, ‘Lona—don’t tell me you actually were actually batting your lashes at one of _them_?”

Solona’s cheeks grew hot, and she resisted the urge to raise a hand to them to cool the flush that surely burned red on her traitorous flesh. “Of course not. A _templar_ , Anders—that’s a bit far-fetched, don’t you think? I was just… thinking about new ideas for the Gauntlet.”

The mage simply raised an eyebrow and peeked out of the window once more. “Well, he _is_ rather good-looking for a mage hunter. That is, if you’re actually into the whole big-muscle-He-Man-little-brain act, I suppose.” His amber eyes danced with amusement.

Though Solona couldn’t deny to herself that she had been openly gawking at Cullen from the safety of the tower only moments before, she wasn’t about to give Anders the satisfaction of knowing his thoughts were close to the truth. Plus, there was no way that anything would happen between the two of them—flirting with the occasional templar was fine, as was admiring them from a distance, but she wouldn’t dare allow herself to actually develop real feelings for one of the stoic guardians of the tower.

Her eyes narrowed and lips curved up as she stood to sashay closer to the blonde mage. “Well, Anders,” she cooed, hoping to stoke some jealousy into her notoriously brazen friend, “he _does_ fill out that heavy armor rather well… better than any of the boys in the tower that I’ve seen around, anyway. Plus,” she added innocently, giving his long hair a flick, “that short hair suits him awfully well. I’ve always liked a clean-cut man, myself.”

Anders laughed off her ribbing remarks. “Sweetheart, I _know_ my hair looks good, so if you think a comment like _that_ is going to get to me, you’ve got another thing coming.” His voice trailed off, and his eyes became unfocused. Solona looked at him curiously.

“Uh, Anders?”

“I’ll meet you later tonight.  I’ve got to go… talk to someone.” He darted off without another word, leaving Solona confused in his wake.

***

“Hey! Hurry up!” Anders waved Solona into the library after dinner, careful to keep his voice down while Petra was near. The older mage had passed her Harrowing only days earlier, and had taken to haunting the library in her new, golden robes and angling herself to show off the brightly polished iron staff at her back. She was currently looking about with her chin held high and a maddeningly superior look on her face—no doubt scanning the area for any signs of misbehaving. She’d already told off some giggling younger apprentices for disturbing the peace, and her former comrades weren’t about to give her an excuse to flaunt her authority with _them_.

_It’s not as if_ she’s _never caused a commotion in here before—I swear, when I pass my own Harrowing, I’ll_ help _the apprentices cause havoc!_

Solona smiled as she thought of all the fun she could have with her own staff and access to the upper-tier crafting items that were granted to full mages. She’d at least find something better to do with her time than skulk around and harass the apprentices.

“Why are we meeting in here, tonight?” Solona asked as she entered a study room on the opposite side of the library that she and her friends normally worked in. “Our other room is bigger, _and_ it has better candlelight.”

“Shh!” Anders said, glancing around nervously. “Keep your tone down—we don’t want _him_ overhearing this.”

Solona rolled her eyes. “Oh, come on, Anders.  I think we should give Cullen a rest—he’s already had a harder time of it than most, even Darren.” Two years earlier, they had snuck an un-washable itching powder into Ser Darren’s armor—the poor man hadn’t stopped fidgeting for over a week!

Anders glanced meaningfully at Jowan, his lips twisted in a smirk.  “I _told_ you she’s soft on him.  Apparently, they’re on a first-name basis, too!” He sighed dramatically. “And here I thought you actually _were_ thinking about pranks earlier today.”

The brunette began laughing, but the moment he caught sight of Solona’s glare, he cut off his mirth with a cough.

Anders groaned, clapping a hand to his brow and shaking his head. “Andraste’s holey knickers, Jowan—would you just make your own opinions for once in your life? I swear—you laugh if I think something’s funny, but the second another person disagrees, you go along with them. If you don’t actually commit to _something_ one of these days, you’ll never pass your Harrowing.”

The little color that was in Jowan’s pale cheeks vanished, and he stammered out a weak defense.

Neria looked daggers at Anders, and laid a gentle hand on Jowan’s arm. “Don’t listen to him—Anders likes to think that he’s above fear or doubt, but he’ll probably be babbling like a little baby when it comes time for his Harrowing. Plus, we don’t even know what happens when they summon you—for all we know, it could just be talking to the first enchanter without sassing off. In that case, you’ll _surely_ do better than Anders.” 

The blonde just rolled his eyes in response before turning back to Solona. “Anyway, as I was saying earlier, we don’t want to be overheard by that templar, since _most_ of us have decided that it’s high time we pull out prank number three.”

“Fine,” Solona sighed, resigned to the fact that Anders wouldn’t give it a rest until she’d at least heard the plan. “What’s it to be this time? Perpetual belching? Uncontrollable stammering? Itching powder, again?”

Anders just turned to Neria with a wicked smile. “Would you care to tell her, sweetheart?”

The blonde elf glanced at Solona, a hint of a smile in place. “Well, Anders actually gave me the idea. He mentioned how much you like Cullen’s hair…”

Solona scoffed and turned to Anders. “In case you hadn’t picked up on it, genius, I was having a bit of a laugh at your expense—I wasn’t serious. Your hair really _is_ a bit of a mess, though,” she added as an afterthought, flicking the short bundle of flaxen hair Anders had tied back. 

“In any case,” Neria continued, waving off Anders as he began to retort, “I’ve got an idea for the next prank, but you’ll need to meet me tomorrow afternoon during free crafting time. I’ve already signed us up, so just be there three bells past lunch.”

***

_Dragon 9:29, Cloudreach 29_

***

Countless odors assaulted Solona’s senses as she entered the crafting hall: the acrid burn of deathroot, the subtle, floral notes of belladonna, a woodsy aroma that hinted at hawthorn, and overlying it all, the cleansing and minty scent of elfroot. She inhaled deeply, reveling in the aromas that she rarely experienced any more—past level three, apprentices began to break into their specialty areas, and crafting was largely used by the creation mages and rarely by primal. Neria had elected to take additional creation classes, and crafting was one of the components that was emphasized at her level. 

Solona smiled, thinking that it was not uncommon to see the older apprentices feverishly stirring a random concoction, nor were billows of multicolored smoke or sudden, small explosions in the hall. Upon arriving, she saw her friend working at one of the end stations, several herbs already meticulously organized on the preparation table. Several springs of rosemary had been stripped, the stalks discarded, and dried lavender had been crushed to a fine, fragrant powder that now sat in a mortar. Finally, she saw thinly sliced burdock root already boiling in a solution over the fire. 

Neria had her back turned, and Solona smiled to see her normally meticulously-kept hair falling forward from her ear and already frizzy—no doubt from the heat and frantic pace of the crafting room. The elf noticed her, smiled, and pushed a stray strand of blonde hair behind her delicately pointed ear. 

“I think we’re just about ready,” she said, eyes darting over the assembled reagents.

Solona cocked an eyebrow, her mind racing over her limited knowledge of crafting. “Neria, you’re going to have to clue me in here. All I remember is that lavender is included in some sort of tonic that’s given to the templars who get insomnia.”

Her friend’s innocent expression changed to a mischievous smile. “Well, that’s not _all_ lavender’s good for. I’ve done a bit of research, and after prodding some of the senior mages for help, I think I’ve got a good feel for how to develop this potion.”

“Oh? And what potion might _that_ be?”

Neria glanced around quickly to ensure they would not be overheard. “A hair-growth tonic.”

Solona felt her jaw drop.

_Hair growth? For a prank? Oh, Maker—if we manage to pull this off without getting caught we deserve some sort of award._

She swallowed hard, not sure that this was the brightest idea they’d ever had—she couldn’t see how they would manage to actually get it _in_ Cullen’s hair? “All right. What do you need me to do?”

For the next two hours, Solona was put to work carefully stirring the less-than-innocuous concoction, watching as various amounts of the required ingredients were added in what Neria assured her was an essential order. The addition of rosemary caused the translucent liquid to turn a deep, forest green. Solona gagged at the smell coming off of it—billows of grey, acerbic smoke clogged her nose and she swore that the fumes would damage her sense of smell forever. With a cloth pressed to her face that did little to filter clean air through the offending stench, she watched her friend dart around, snatching various bottles off of the shelves in the room.

“Neria,” she called, her voice muffled behind her protective layers of material, “why don’t _you_ take a turn stirring, and I’ll chase after ingredients for a while?”

The elven woman ignored her, pausing long enough to add three drops of an unknown red liquid to their brew. The smell abated to some extent, but the smoke persisted and Solona felt the stirring rod slow as the solution thickened substantially.

“Almost there,” Neria mused as she returned to the station. 

Solona just gaped at her before whispering her concern. “If we try to put this on anyone—let alone a templar—they’ll notice we did something right away just by this stench. Maker, it must smell as bad as those nugs we’ve read about in historical books on Ferelden and Orzammar!

Again, Neria offered no response other than a small smile. She picked up the lavender that had yet to be added, and began to sprinkle small amounts into the potion. The tar-like substance immediately turned clear once again, and the angry plumes of stinking smoke gave way to soft pink tendrils. Expecting to detect the distinctive scent of lavender, Solona was stunned to find that the addition of the flower actually caused the mixture to smell very faintly of vanilla as well as the flower.

Neria smiled, her arms crossed and her entire being radiating satisfaction. “All we need to do now is bottle this up and test it to make sure it does what we want it to.”

Solona grinned at her friend. “You know, Neria, for someone who pulls off the whole sweet-and-innocent persona perfectly, you can be surprisingly evil sometimes.”

The elf’s melodious laugh rang softly through the almost empty room. She capped the last of their three bottles of tonic with a cork before speaking again. “Before we use this for our prank, I’ve got the perfect person for a trial run.”

***

Late that night, Solona crept out of her dormitory, her dark blue dressing robe over her nightdress.  Knowing that the templars were on shift change, she closed the door softly behind her and tiptoed rapidly down the abandoned hall, the flickering light from the torches casting shifting shadows on the stone walls. The corridors, so bustling with life and cacophonous chatter during the day, were eerily silent at night. Hearing the tell-tale sound of metal boots on stone, she quickened her pace, aware that she had very little time to reach the dormitories of the creation students. 

She finally reached the heavy oaken door and edged inside. Looking around, she saw the soft glow of Neria’s alert eyes, and crept to her friend’s side. The elf motioned for her to follow, and the pair of them crouched down and slid past the sleeping forms of the other apprentices. Arriving at the door that led to the boys’ wing, Neria pushed the door open a crack and peered into the darkness for any sign that their wanderings had woken anyone. 

Feeling a soft tug on her cloak, Solona slunk in after her friend and glanced around for their target. There, snoring loudly on one of the first beds, was Anders. His mouth gaped open, and one long leg had escaped the confines of the blankets and was dangling down, his bare toes almost touching the cold floor. Likewise, one of his arms also hung over the edge of the bed, and his normally immaculate hair was askew on his pillow.

Solona glanced and Neria, and both of them stifled giggles at their friend’s less-than-graceful pose. Her lips still pulled into a grin, Solona nodded and Neria pulled out one of their prepared potions from that afternoon. Careful not to spill any on herself, she cautiously dripped the solution onto Anders’ forearm and waited. Seconds later, it was clear that Neria’s smarts and their combined hard work had paid off.

Downy blonde hair began to grow at an alarming rate up and down Anders’ arm—soon, it appeared as though some sort of sandy-haired animal had wrapped itself around the entire limb.

Solona doubled over in silent laughter, holding onto Neria’s shoulder to prevent herself from falling over. With a sudden burst of inspiration, she looked at her friend who had tears of mirth streaming from her eyes, and motioned at the boy’s exposed leg and mouthed her intent.

_“His leg, too!”_

Neria shook with laughter and nodded her head, carefully walking to the other side of the bed. She repeated the process, and they both watched with bated breath for the tonic to take effect.  As soon as his leg began to sprout copious amounts of hair as had his arm before, Solona and Neria were so overcome with hilarity that they had to leave for fear of waking anyone up.

They made their way back into the ladies’ wing and collapsed against the wall, gasping with ill-concealed laugher. 

Between heaving breaths, Neria whispered, “And the beauty of that tonic—providing I’ve done it right—is that even if you cut or shave the hair off, it’ll keep growing back for three days!”

Solona buried her face in her hands to stifle her giggling—some of the girls nearest to them were stirring faintly in their sleep from the noise the two of them were creating. “That’s _perfect_! What’s even better than that, though, is that if Anders wants us to actually be able to pull of the prank, he can’t show anybody what’s happened, otherwise the deed will be pinned to all of us—including him!”

With a last laugh, Neria went to bed and Solona cautiously returned to her own dormitory, excited to see Anders’ reaction the next day.

***

_Dragon 9:29, Cloudreach 30_

***

“I hate you both!” Anders hissed as they left their morning class together and headed for the Great Hall. 

Solona and Neria glanced at one another and dissolved into gales of laughter.

“I’m serious,” he continued, “all this hair itches like a dwarf’s backside! And why did you decide that _I_ was the lucky test-subject?”

“Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it?” Solona mocked. “You _were_ the one who gave the idea to Neria, plus you’re awfully vain about your own luscious locks. We figured that with hair like yours, more was better!”

Anders just scowled at her.

“Well, what with this rather successful test run and all, do you think we’re ready to implement the official prank number three?” Neria asked, one delicate eyebrow arched in question.

“I should bloody well hope so!” Anders emoted, clearly disgruntled about his part to play in the most recent events of their gauntlet of pranks.

“I suppose so,” Solona said. “How exactly are we going to get this in his hair, though? We all just have bars of soap for our baths, so we couldn’t exactly swap this out without raising suspicions. Could we just dump it into some bathwater?”

Neria shook her head.  “No, it works best when undiluted. Too much water will render this ineffective.”

“And Maker forbid this be any _less_ potent than it already is,” grumbled Anders, glaring at Jowan who had just remained smiling throughout the entire plotting session. “No, I think out best bet is for one of us—that means you, Solona—to sneak back up through the tunnels and into the templar quarters again.”

Solona froze. She knew it was the logical idea—she was, after all, the only one of them who had actually ventured into the templars’ hall before. Aside from that, she knew exactly which bed was Cullen’s. No, the reasonable choice was certainly her. The inexplicable feeling remained, though, that she was beginning to feel sorry for tormenting the man so much. Glancing around at the expectant faces that watched her, she pushed the troublesome feelings aside and nodded her acquiescence. 

“Excellent!” Anders cried, glancing down to make sure that his fist pump hadn’t jostled his robes enough to reveal the mass of hair underneath. “It’s got to be tonight, too—today’s the last day of the month, and the templars will have gotten their schedules for Bloomingtide. Make sure to either take his or write down a copy while you’re there, ‘Lona.”

Sighing with resignation, Solona nodded.

The four of them walked into the dining hall to finish plotting, Solona feeling curiously apprehensive about the whole ordeal.

***

That night, Solona snuck out of her dormitory for the second time in as many days. She moved soundlessly through the halls, and reached the storeroom entrance after narrowly avoiding being caught by the templar stationed just down the hall from the room. She’d only escaped notice by diving into the crafting room and hiding behind a shelving unit just as he poked his head in the room to check on the small noise she had made in her panic.

After her heart calmed, she entered the damp caverns of the storeroom, the bottle of tonic clutched tightly in one hand. She paused at a barrel of dried violets, and smiled to herself as she gathered up a handful of the delicate blossoms.

_If I’m in this prank, I might as well go all the way._

Time raced by as she sped through the humid passages, and she soon found herself at the hidden entrance to the templars’ rooms. She listened carefully for any tell-tale sign that anyone was awake beyond the wall before sloughing off her heavy dressing robe and cautiously pushing the slab of stone outward. She paused after she entered the room, ready to make a quick escape back into the tunnel if any of the sleeping forms stirred. 

Soft moonlight streamed through the one, small window in the room. Though it provided little illumination, Solona was able to make out the lumpy shapes of the sleeping templars whose deep, even breathing reached her keen ears. She slowly shut the entrance, leaving a lone petal behind in the event that she needed to find her way back with as much urgency as the last time she’d ventured into these chambers. Though she could not make out the color of the flower in the gloom, the outline was clear and would be easy to spot should the need arise.

Before heading to the far room, Solona turned to her right in the hall and walked to the closed door of the knight-commander’s office. Luck was with her—as she’d suspected, the duty rosters for the new month had been posted on the board just outside of the heavy door. She quickly rifled through the tacked-up sheets of vellum until she found Cullen’s. Grabbing the spare parchment and quill she’d brought along, Solona quickly scratched down his schedule.  She noted with what couldn’t possibly be a twinge of regret that he no longer was on duty for morning Primal Level Four. He did, however, still have evening library duty, just in a different wing. Careful to keep the rustling of her papers to a minimum, Solona turned to leave for the opposite end of the hall.

She crept down the corridor, careful to walk only on the carpeted areas that would muffle her already quiet footfalls. She froze at any wayward sound—the innocent rolling around of a sleeping templar, the breath of wind through an opened window—all of these echoing through the high-ceilinged rooms at a volume that was deafening to someone on a stealthy mission.

At long last, she reached the last room where she had found Cullen’s schedule weeks before. She walked in quietly, leaving the door slightly ajar so as not to cause old hinges to creak or wood to thrum against the door jam. She knelt on the side of the bed where Cullen slept, facing the other two bunks in case either of the other men in the room happened to stir.

She paused for a moment to look at the sleeping man in front of her. No lines of strain were evident in his features, and his full lips were parted slightly, not held in the characteristic straight-lined grimace of the men of the order. She smiled at how peaceful he looked, and thought that relaxed, he seemed years younger than he appeared during waking hours. 

Giving herself a shake, Solona returned to the task at hand, chiding herself for taking precious time to gawk at a templar. She eased the cork from the bottle, grimacing at the quiet _pop_ from the release of pressure. Pausing to ensure that none of the sleepers had woken with the noise, Solona quickly spread the potion throughout the unconscious man’s hair. She inhaled deeply, reveling in the faint scent of Neria’s creation.

_If only our plain soaps smelled this nice. I suppose consistently hot water would also be a plus—at least when I’m a full mage I’ll be allowed to use magic to heat my own bath water._

Pocketing the now empty bottle, Solona froze as Cullen stirred, mumbling incoherently in his sleep. She dove underneath the bed to avoid any possible notice, certain the pounding of her traitorous heart was louder than the clanking of templars marching in formation. After what seemed an eternity, the crunching sound of straw in the mattress abated, and Cullen’s breathing above her hiding space evened out once again.

Creeping out from her makeshift hiding place, Solona peeked above the edge of the bed.  Long, lustrous strawberry-blonde hair had begun to grow rapidly, and did not cease until it hung past where his shoulders would be. Soft curls that were only hinted at in his closely-cropped style were now apparent, and Solona gaped openly at how silky it was.

_Surely most of the female apprentices would die for hair like his!_

Glancing furtively around, Solona reached her hand forward tentatively to draw her fingers through the soft tresses, marveling at how thick and smooth it was. Retracting her hand, she turned to leave, but remembered the last part of her plan.  She turned back to his sleeping form, and with a smile, began arranging the dried violets through the locks of his hair. She leaned back to admire her handiwork and clasped a hand to her mouth to stifle the laughter that threatened to break through.

From root to tip it looked as though a sleeping fairy might be prone on the bed, but looking past the hair, the effect was nothing short of hilarious. Cullen’s face—though softened in sleep—was decidedly masculine and completely at odds with the overtly feminine styling of hair that now crowned his head. She reached forward to arrange the last few strands of stray hair near his left ear, still kneeling next to the mattress. Cullen shifted once more, and turned his head so that his cheek lay against her hand.

Solona was frozen in place—his warm cheek against her cool hand and the tender gesture, no matter that it was unconsciously done, sent a warm pool of inexplicable pleasure to her chest. After the space of a few heartbeats, Solona very carefully and slowly extracted her hand. She turned to leave the room with one last glance at the templar and his new hair-do. Smiling with satisfaction, she left to navigate herself back to her own bed.

As she lay sleeping that night, she had yet to discover that flowers and hair weren’t the only tokens she had left Cullen with—a small, silver circlet of ivy lay upon the floor next to the templar’s bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you've all been enjoying! These chapters of pranks were some of the favorite ones I've written!


	5. Chapter 5

_Dragon 9:30, Bloomingtide 3_

_Cullen_

Early afternoon sunshine streamed through the regularly spaced windows, and Cullen’s heavy boots clanked against the stone floors, echoing throughout the corridor outside of the Great Hall. Long, fragrant garlands of lilac, tulips, and lilies still adorned the ceilings in the aftermath of the Summerday festivities. The templar paid no heed to the vibrant blossoms—he had only a short break, and needed to speak with the knight-commander.

Cullen was through with these childish games.

He toyed with the delicate bangle in the small pouch at his side, the cool metal doing little to quench the fires of purpose within. 

He hadn’t seen the token on his floor until that very morning during his prayers when he’d sent heartfelt praise to the Maker for finally seeing fit to cease the spell that caused his hair to grow back whenever he took a blade to it. He had to admit that the mages seemed to have lost their touch if hair-growth was the best they could throw at him, though. Yes, he had endured the teasing of Warren and Eric who awoke to find his flowing locks adorned in flowers, but once he’d found that he couldn’t cut his hair short again, it was simple enough to tuck it underneath his helm and keep his embarrassing new style a secret. He smiled grimly at the memory of that discomfort—short hair was certainly _far_ more comfortable and cool under the metal confines than long hair!

Upon finding the bracelet, Cullen had contemplated simply ignoring it or turning it in to the Tranquil mages who ran the stockroom and often returned lost items to their owners before realizing that he could use it to his own advantage, and turn the tables on his tormenter. He had a nagging suspicion that Anders was behind the misfortunes he’d had since arriving at Kinloch Hold, but the fragile piece of jewelry suggested that a young lady had been at least an accomplice—Cullen had no idea if the troublemaking mage had a female friend cunning enough to pull off what they had.

As he reached the massive oaken door that led to Knight-Commander Greagoir’s office, Cullen hesitated for a moment, unsure of whether simple pranking constituted an investigation. Shaking his head and remembering the petty annoyances that had been cited in his lessons leading to disciplinary action, Cullen rapped his knuckles on the door twice.

“Enter.” Greagoir’s muffled voice was barely discernible through the thick, wooden barrier.

The well-oiled hinges made no sound as Cullen pushed the door open. He dipped his head in deference to his superior, who had raised his head from his work, the tip of his quill still poised on vellum. “Knight-Commander,” Cullen said in greeting.

“Yes, boy.  I trust that your latest… mishap with some of the apprentices hasn’t affected your duties?”

Cullen shook his head and clasped his hands behind his back. “No, ser. It is that matter that has prompted me to seek you out today, though.” He paused, and after receiving a nod of approval from the older man, Cullen reached into the small leather pouch and pulled out the bracelet. “I found this at the foot of my bed this morning. Templars are not allowed jewelry such as this item—not even the female members of our order—so I believe that it belongs to whoever is behind the pranks.”

Greagoir reached for the token and Cullen handed it over willingly. The knight-commander rolled the patterned metal between his fingers, eyebrows furrowed in concentration as he scrutinized the trinket. “I am not sure of which apprentice this belongs to, however, Irving may be able to help you once again.” He handed the bracelet back to Cullen. “Relay to him what you just told me, and we will hopefully be able to put an end to this ridiculous plotting.”

Cullen bowed his head and turned to leave. “Thank you, Knight-Commander. I will keep you informed as the investigation proceeds.” He sped through the halls of the tower, barely acknowledging his brothers-in-arms as he passed the few of them who were on watch. His head spun with satisfaction, knowing that the first enchanter was obligated to help if he could, and that the reign of his tormenter was, at long last, drawing to a close.

As he descended a staircase, Cullen turned right and arrived at First Enchanter Irving’s office. He knocked, rattled out the expected greetings, and finally was asked why he had come by the aging man, whose mouth didn’t quite hide the smile that threatened to break free. Cullen told Irving the same tale that he’d given to the knight-commander. With a voice more steely than was perhaps prudent, he couldn’t help but remind Irving of his responsibilities. “I believe that, as first enchanter of the Circle and liaison to the templars here, it is your duty to help with our matters in any way you can, providing that it does not impinge upon any of the mages’ basic rights?”

Cullen was shocked to see the old mage chuckle. “Oh, young man—that was spoken like a true templar. I applaud you on recalling that exact line from the rather dreary tome that lists all of the first enchanter’s duties. I must admit that I found the entire thing dull, and may have skimmed over some of the other, less crucial regulations. However, that particular one has been told to me time and again by the knight-commander. Why he insists on reciting it over and over is a mystery to me, as I’ve never denied the templars aid when the need arises.”

“So, you know a way to help?” Cullen asked impatiently.

Irving eased himself into his high-backed chair and motioned for Cullen to hand over the bracelet. “As you’ve just so cleverly reminded me, if there _is_ a way to help, I’m bound to do so.” He slipped a pair of spectacles onto his nose and peered closely at the intricate design. “Though I don’t know who this belongs to, I might yet be able to help you. Mages who wear items such as this when they practice casting their magic often unwittingly leave a small bit of their personal magic on that object.”

Cullen looked blankly at the man before him, utterly bewildered—he had not heard of anything like this during his training.

“Though most people are under the impression that mages universally draw their mana from the Fade,” Irving continued, his voice adopting a tone that he must use when teaching classes, “they are partially incorrect in their assumptions. Mages _do_ draw from the Fade, but when mana enters our bodies it becomes as much a part of a mage as their own flesh and blood. Each time a spell is cast, a mage leaves a magical fingerprint of their mana behind. Often, if they wear items such as this, they retain that magical energy for a time.”

Cullen quirked an eyebrow. “Then why are apostates who commit crimes such as murder and theft not easily found?”

“This trace of energy is only detectable for a few days—after that it fades away into oblivion and no sign is left,” Irving replied calmly. “I will examine this item, and see if I can match a trace on it to one of the apprentices.”

Still twirling the item in his spindly fingers, Irving’s dark brown eyes regarded him from above the glasses, twinkling with merriment. “Oh, and before you leave? I must say, Ser Cullen, I was rather hoping that you _wouldn’t_ ask for my help on this matter—it has certainly been amusing to see how creative the apprentices have become in recent years.”

***

Cullen strode into the main entrance hall for his afternoon duty. Mages were given one day a week to practice their skills out-of-doors under the watchful eye of the templars—there were certain spells that manipulated water and air that were simply not prudent to do inside. According to the schedule on the wall, the mages would be practicing water manipulation in the shallows of Lake Calenhad this afternoon—the temperature was now warm enough that contracting an illness was unlikely.

In order to maintain a sense of decency, the male and female apprentices would be separated, and appropriate templars would be assigned to each group. Cullen and Warren were to watch over the six male apprentices, and Sasha and Kira were in charge of the young ladies. There would also be two senior enchanters present to lead the lessons. 

Cullen and Warren spoke idly while they waited for the mages to arrive, both agreeing that it would be a nice change of pace to be outside on such a nice day, especially as helms were not required during these outdoor excursions. The cool breeze from the lake would certainly provide more relief than the stagnant air of the library, and Cullen looked eagerly at the lofty windows. Billowing dust motes caught in streams of golden sunlight, glimmering like miniscule diamonds.

Cacophonous chatter and laughter reached their ears, alerting the templars that the group of apprentices were about to arrive. Cullen and Warren split off, standing at attention in preparation for the arrival of their charges. The door burst open and the excitement was plainly written on each face that entered the hall—Cullen had been informed that these weekly outings were the highlight of the summer months for most of the mages.

The apprentices broke into two groups, and Cullen felt the all-too-familiar stutter of his heart as he caught a glimpse of Solona speaking animatedly with her elven friend. Her dark hair was pulled away from her face in a practical knot at the crown of her head, and although Cullen thought he preferred her loose waves free, he could not deny how this particular style emphasized her angular cheekbones and put those piercing cerulean eyes into stark relief. Intensely aware that he was still under her scrutiny, Cullen wrenched his gaze back to consider the opposite wall, his cheeks flaring with head as she grinned at him.

As the enchanters began to outline the objectives of the lesson, Cullen attempted to listen carefully. Knowing what type of magic could potentially be abused was essential to his ability to perform his job. As they droned on about direction of mana flow and subtle manipulation techniques, though, Cullen found that his attention drifted toward the dark-haired beauty he was stoically ignoring. That she continued to have such an effect on him was alarming—he had been warned that the repercussions from fraternizing with mages were dire indeed, but the Revered Mother’s teachings somehow seemed less important now than they once had.  Cullen gave himself a shake, ignoring Warren’s confused glace at his sudden movement.

_Surely this is just a phase of some sort. I’m sure that all templars feel this temptation at some point. The Maker has put this woman before me as a trial to assess my inner strength and devotion to faith, and I will_ not _be denied a place at his side because of my own, inane weaknesses._

Feeling only somewhat convinced of his logic, Cullen followed the mages out of the tower and onto the sandy strip of beach. Two canvas tents had been set up for the mages to change into lighter swimming robes, and Cullen and Warren stood outside of the men’s. Despite his decision from moments before to completely put thoughts of Solona out of his head, he couldn’t help but imagine her in the adjacent tent, shedding the heavy, everyday robes for something much lighter—something that would surely cling to each curve of her body once she ventured into the water…

He was saved from further, more indecent thoughts by raucous laughter and much pushing and shoving as the boys emerged from their tent. The enchanter shook his head, and lifted his shoulders as he passed the templars, pausing at the edge of the lake to wait until the splashing had subsided before wading in himself. Cullen didn’t dare sneak a glance down the beach to see if Solona and her friends had finished changing.

He looked out over the apprentices under their care, and though he recognized most of the faces, he could put a name to only one of them. Anders, his blonde hair plastered against his head and neck and a casually confident smirk on his face, stood waist-deep in the water. He had his arms crossed and was surprisingly not taking place in the water war that had broken out despite the enchanter’s best efforts to quell it—in fact, the mage appeared almost _bored_. 

Cullen thought this was rather suspicious, but before he could think longer on it, the lesson began and his senses tingled with the large amount of magic being used. It took all of his concentration to focus on the three apprentices he was watching and to stay alert for any signs of a mage using magic other than the approved spells to be practiced. 

Though he knew his stony expression stayed in place, Cullen couldn’t help but hold a grudging fascination with the abilities these mages had. Their manipulation of nature was certainly unnatural and carried great potential for danger, but the power they used was certainly something to behold. The enchanter demonstrated how a stream of water that was thin as a sapling could be shot straight into the air, and with a flick of a finger, the liquid accumulated into a flat plane that hung lazily aloft. With another motion of a hand, the disc spun rapidly, ultimately sending droplets of water flying to each side. 

Cullen’s eyes darted among his three charges as they went about recreating the first manipulations. Although he harbored a secret desire to see Anders fail, the young troublemaker was clearly having no problem with this particular exercise. Sweeping his gaze to the boy next to him, however, Cullen had to hastily disguise a laugh with a cough as the plane of water above the dark-haired mage’s head collapsed, dousing the boy and knocking him to his backside. 

Laughter from his comrades abounded, and he sat wiping water out of his eyes. Cullen saw Anders extend a hand to help the boy up and heard him say, “Your mind on that initiate again, Jowan?”

_What? The mages are pining over the chantry initiates, now? Maker, what is this world coming to?_

The enchanter had just calmed them down and was about to show the best way to create a whirlpool when the apprentices began whispering and pointing back at the entrance to the tower. Cullen chanced a glance back during the lull in spell-casting, and was mildly surprised to see First Enchanter Irving striding down to the dock and motioning to speak with Ser Kira. He tore his attention back to the boys, and nodded to the enchanter to continue with the lesson—clearly, Irving had business with one of the other apprentices, and that was no concern of theirs.

Moments later, though, Cullen was proven wrong. Ser Kira walked up to Cullen, her gray eyes suspicious. “The first enchanter has requested your presence.”

Cullen furrowed his brow, but did not question her message. “Very well. I’ll meet him momentarily.” He turned to Warren before leaving. “I’ll be gone only a moment, I’m sure. Make sure to watch all of the apprentices while I’m gone.”

“Got it,” he replied. As Cullen turned to walk away, he noticed that his bunkmate had yet to return his attention to the mages in the water. He marveled at the fact that some men—particularly those who were far less vigilant than he—had ever managed to become templars.

As Cullen neared the dock, he noticed that the first enchanter had his back turned and was speaking with someone else already. He slowed his step and walked as quietly as possible down the creaky wooden planks. As the greying head turned to greet him, Cullen was shocked to see that Solona—hair dripping onto the ground and her light, wet robes as alluring as he had imagined—was already standing there. 

Irving greeted him somberly. “Ser Cullen, thank you for coming. I was just about to ask apprentice Amell if this rather lovely bauble belonged to her.” The silver bracelet shone in the sun, the leaves of ivy clearly visible even from a distance.

Solona glanced almost imperceptibly in Cullen’s direction before meeting the first enchanter’s appraising gaze. She nodded her head. “Yes, First Enchanter. The bracelet is mine.”

Cullen felt his mouth drop open, and struggled to coax his muscles into working to close it once again.

_Not her! This lovely creature surely can’t be the one who’s tormented me this past month. It isn’t possible._

He was torn between his duty that screamed to see punishment doled out to the deserving perpetrator, and desire to see the woman who haunted his dreams go free. The grizzled old enchanter saw nothing of this internal conflict, though, and Cullen felt his knees weaken as the next words were spoken.

“Ser Cullen, who has been unfortunate enough to be on the receiving end of some rather… creative pranks found your token this morning beside his bed. He gave it to me in the hope that the wrongdoer would be found.”

Solona’s face fell. After a moment, she glanced back up at Cullen, her eyes glimmering and pleading with him though no words were spoken. Cullen forcefully reminded himself that _she_ was the one who had caused his hair to grow. She had somehow imprinted magical words on his armor, and—worst of all—had caused him to blaspheme in the most sacred place in the tower. Though reason told him that it was only right that she be exposed, a dull ache in his chest attested to his remorse that it had to be _her_.

“I—I’m sorry, Ser Cullen.” Her voice was barely a whisper, and he only just heard it over the breeze that was whipping her hair out of place. He cleared his throat to reply, though he knew not what to say, but Irving addressed her first.

“Be that as it may, child, this cannot go unpunished,” he said gently, looking upon the young woman as he might a wayward daughter of his own. “I hardly think, though, that you were able to pull all of this off on your own. Were there others who helped with your plotting?”

Solona faced him, eyes wide with alarm. “No!  I mean—I may have gotten some ideas from friends, but I will take full responsibility, First Enchanter.”

Irving considered her for a long moment before nodding. “Very well.” He looked at Cullen, who was still attempting to stand tall and in a professional manner despite the fact that all coherent thought seemed to have fled his tortured mind. “I believe that as punishment –”

The official verdict was cut off as the enchanter who had been instructing the male apprentices ran over. “I’m sorry to interrupt, Irving, but we have an issue.”

“Oh? What seems to be the problem?” 

“Anders is gone.”

Cullen raced over to where the remaining mages stood. Warren was red-faced and shouting and pointing at each of the clearly baffled mages, and as he glanced back, Cullen could have sworn that Irving appeared more amused than angry.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Does anyone else feel like Irving would be a hilarious grandpa? I adore him.


	6. Chapter 6

_Dragon 9:29, Bloomingtide 3_

_Amell_

Though the day was warm, a chill crept up Solona’s spine as she saw the first enchanter hand her bracelet to Cullen. Glancing at the templar, the hurt and disbelief that shone in his eyes pierced her to her core. She dragged her attention back to Irving to give him the reply he already knew the answer to.

“Yes, First Enchanter. The bracelet is mine.”

She forced her eyes away from Cullen, certain that if she were to see the undeniable pain swirling in those hazel depths she would break down and end up babbling out incoherent explanations for her actions. Realizing that the first enchanter was appraising her once again, Solona chanced a glance at the templar, feeling the sting of unshed tears prick the corners of her eyes. 

“I—I’m sorry, Ser Cullen,” she managed to whisper after a deep, shaky breath. Why she felt this badly about the pranking, she wasn’t sure—she’d never had this level of remorse for any of the other tricks she had pulled over the years. 

The templar coughed lightly, and moved as if to reply, but any words of his were cut off by Irving. “Be that as it may, child, this cannot go unpunished.” His dark eyes considered her kindly, even if his tone was rather stern. “I hardly think, though, that you were able to pull all of this off on your own. Were there others who helped with your plotting?”

A cold sweat broke out on her brow. _I can’t let the others be punished for this! Anders practically just got done with his punishment from his last escape attempt, and Neria would be mortified if any of her wrongdoings were exposed._

“No!” Solona blurted her denial out too quickly, and backpedalled at seeing the first enchanter’s eyebrow quirked in disbelief. “I mean—I may have gotten some ideas from friends, but I will take full responsibility, First Enchanter.”

Her heart sank. Solona had no doubt that she could handle whatever punishment they decided to throw at her, but she was certain that the haunted look on Cullen’s face would be forever etched into her memories. She gave herself a shake, and resolved to speak with the templar sometime when she had a chance. She looked up in time to see Senior Enchanter Clay skid to a stop and, bent over and clutching his knees, he gasped out the last words she wanted to hear at that moment.

“Anders is gone.”

Solona stood rooted to the spot as Cullen, followed by the first enchanter, rushed over to where the boys were gathered. 

_Well, this isn’t good. I get caught for pranking, and now Anders is gone from right under the noses of the templars. Again._

She still hadn’t moved by the time the knight-commander stormed down to the beach, his lips drawn together in a tight line and his fist clasped around a small, glass object. Another templar rushed along in his wake carrying two bulky rucksacks that had undoubtedly been packed in a hurry. A slab of dried meat fell out of the top of one of the bags, and the loose sleeve of a tunic had escaped the confines of another. Cullen and Warren rushed to meet him, with the first enchanter following at a slower pace. He beckoned Solona as he passed, and she fell in step with him. 

“Ser Warren. Ser Cullen.” Greagoir addressed the younger templars curtly with a nod at each of them. “Explain yourselves.”

Warren began to babble off excuses to his superior, and Solona fought the urge to laugh at his pathetic efforts. She chanced a glance at Cullen, and fought the upward turn of her lips and quelled the giggle that threatened to break loose when the templar actually _did_ roll his eyes at the scene. 

_Well, well. It seems that the templars have a sense of humor after all! This one does, at least, even if he_ was _less than amused with the pranks we pulled._

“That will do, Ser Warren,” Greagoir said with no small amount of impatience lacing his tone. “Regardless of who is at fault, our top priority now is to retrieve apprentice Anders immediately. As you two are directly responsible for this, you will lead this particular mission. Ser Bran will accompany you, as he is already familiar with how to handle these situations.” He nodded at the templar who carried the rucksacks before pressing the small, glass vial he had been holding into Cullen’s hand. “You have been trained on how to use a mage’s phylactery to track them, and Bran has all of the provisions you should need. Anders cannot have gotten far—leave now, and you should be able to find him with little delay.”

Warren, Bran, and Cullen all bowed and turned to leave. Before they had reached the dock, though, Solona saw Cullen glance back one last time, his eyes locking on to hers for a scant moment. Although she couldn’t make out any expression for certain, she could have sworn that he smiled, and her chest filled with warmth again as she let out the breath she’d been holding.

As she watched the men clamber into the boat, Irving cleared his throat and she whipped around to face him and a very grave knight-commander.

“Apprentice Amell,” Greagoir began, “I am afraid we must now discuss the consequences of your actions.”

Solona hung her head, the breeze that had picked up tugging strands of her dark hair out of its confining knot. “Yes, ser.”

“We had initially decided that you would serve in the kitchen every evening for the remainder of the month.” A charged pause told Solona that he was not finished speaking. “However, recent events must be taken into account.”

She lifted her eyes in confusion. “Ser?”

The knight-commander folded his arms and his gaze turned steely. “Apprentice, I am going to ask you directly, and I expect an honest answer. Is that understood?” He waited for her nod of agreement. “Did you or did you not plot to distract the first enchanter and Ser Cullen in an attempt to aid Anders in his escape today?”

She was shocked. She considered the faint scowl on the normally cheerful first enchanter’s face, and the knight-commander’s accusing stare burned through her in accusation. 

_How could they think such a thing? Anders has been making escape attempts for years on his own—why would this time be any different? He might be one of my best friends, but I would_ never _do something as outrageous as helping him leave the tower!_

She met his intimidating glare and swallowed hard before answering truthfully, praying that they would believe her. “No, Knight-Commander. I had no knowledge of Anders’ intentions today.”

There was stagnant silence which Irving broke. “I believe you, Solona. However, the knight-commander and I have agreed that it would be best if you are kept in solitary confinement until Anders is returned to the circle and can confirm what you’ve told us.”

Solona’s mouth went dry, and her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. “Solitary confinement?” she repeated thickly. Every horror story that she’d heard from friends and acquaintances who had been locked away in the bowels of the tower rushed to the front of her mind. Even Anders, who had frequented those pits more than anyone she’d ever met, could not fully hide his distaste for the cramped cells behind layers of carefully constructed indifference and dry humor.

Irving’s gaze was somber as he nodded. “I’m sorry, child. It should not be for long, and I’m sure that you’ll agree if you were in our position, you’d see the wisdom in this decision as well. Greagoir will accompany you into the tower and downstairs. I’ll arrange for your books to be brought down to you.”

Solona simply nodded and followed the knight-commander into the tower. As she looked up at the sun-bleached stone façade and moved into the hollow entryway, she thought for the first time that the solid walls of her home felt like the prison Anders always described.

***

Greagoir led her past a locked door and deep under the main floor of the tower—the solitary confinement cells and repository were strictly off-limits to all but the first enchanter, knight-commander, and select templars who were sent to check on any incarcerated mages. The floor was uneven and small, shallow puddles were everywhere.  A draft of cool, humid air blew around Solona, and she shivered in her damp clothing—she hoped that her regular, heavier robes would be sent down to her. 

Down a hallway lit sparsely with sputtering torches, Greagoir stopped and drew a ring of keys from a leather pouch at his side. He selected a large, brass one, and slid it into the lock. With a click that echoed throughout the corridor, the door swung open with a creak. He held his arm out and Solona stepped timidly inside. There was a straw-filled mat in one corner of the room, and a small desk and rickety stool along one wall. A bookshelf that was empty except for a steel chamber pot on the bottom shelf and several cobwebs completed the furnishings of the room.

Greagoir pointed to the desk, and when he spoke his deep voice was surprisingly gentle. “There is a small ration of candles in the top drawer of the desk. Use these sparingly, as they are only replaced every week. You will receive meals under your door, and can just put the empty dishes back out once you have finished. Finally, though you can use some magic while you are here, I would discourage it. The walls have been imbued with corrupted lyrium, which, as I’m sure you’ve learned in your lessons, is highly effective at leeching away mana. If you use too much in this area, it will sap your strength. Some of the mages who have been kept here before you have attempted to either escape or harm their guards using magic, and the consequences have been… unpleasant. I would advise you against trying.”

Solona glanced at the nondescript stone walls, unsure of whether the knight-commander was telling the truth or not. Before she could ask any further questions, though, he turned his head to the end of the hall, and moments later echoing footsteps approached the cell. One of the Tranquil mages had been sent down with her books, and Solona almost cried out with relief when she saw a neatly folded set of warm robes on top of her entropy text. She accepted the items and thanked the woman, whose eyes remained glassy and emotionless as she bowed and walked mechanically back to the main floor. 

“I will leave you here now, apprentice. As soon as Anders has been found, we will speak with both of you to determine the best course of action.” Greagoir turned and walked away. The door shut with a dull thud, the torches waved with the gust of air, and Solona was left in silence.

Giving herself a shake, Solona turned to consider her cell. The surface of the desk had a fine layer of dust, and glancing at the bed, Solona decided that shaking out the blankets that had been provided might be prudent before she even thought about lying down. After spending far more time than was necessary arranging her books by alphabetical order and aligning their spines with an exacting hand, she changed into her warmer robes and realized that she was already out of ways to pass the time—short of studying, that is. She glanced at the unassuming walls that she had been warned about, and curiosity getting the best of her, walked slowly closer.

She held her hand out when she was only about one pace away from the edge of the room, and felt her fingers tingle. She wrenched her hand back in shock—the sensation had been very similar to the feeling of directing powerful magic through her hands, almost as if the mana were being leeched out of her system. 

_Well, it looks as though the knight-commander was right._

She stepped to the center of the room to try out a spell, just to see how powerful the dispelling effects were. She conjured a small ball of fire in her right hand, and found that even this simple spell that normally drained an unnoticeable amount of mana was more taxing than it ever had been. With a scowl, she extinguished the flame and flopped down on the makeshift bed, a barely visible cloud of dust billowing in her wake.

***

_Dragon 9:29, Bloomingtide 6_

***

Based on the meals that she had received, Solona figured that she had been in her lonely cell for two or three days. She’d attempted to talk to the armed templar who delivered her meals, but her words didn’t appear to be even acknowledged. She’d had a hard time focusing enough to study much of anything, and she had already burned through well over half of her candles. As she wasn’t even able to efficiently practice any of the theory that she read about, Solona didn’t see much point in staying diligent with her work. 

She’d been sleeping more than she ever did under normal circumstances, and as a result her mind and body were keyed up for action but with nothing to do. She paced her small cell impatiently. She’d just eaten a meal, and knew that she wouldn’t see another living soul—aside from the occasional black rat that wandered through—for some time. She wondered idly if that cat Anders had told her about actually lived down here—Maker only knew she could use the company! She knelt down next to her mat and began to fluff the stuffing in an attempt to make it a bit more comfortable when she froze.

She held her hand next to a small crack in the wall that she hadn’t noticed before, and felt a cool draft hit her skin. Her heart beat faster with excitement, and as she pressed herself to the floor to peer into the fissure she was certain that she could see light at the end of a small passageway. She jumped up and checked the hall for any signs of guards, then knelt down and worked at the stones that she found to be loose.

Several scrapes and bruises later, Solona regarded the opening that she had uncovered. There was certainly a passageway there, but it didn’t appear to have been used frequently—if ever. Shrugging, she decided that exploring was certainly more entertaining than lying on her mat or attempting to read about spells she already knew the theory to. 

She shrugged out of her robe, and wearing only her lightweight shift Solona pressed against the floor and crawled into the small tunnel. The smell of raw earth permeated her senses, and a small light not far ahead was her only indication of where she was going. Cold dirt seeped into the thin clothing that she wore, and she wondered if she’d be able to hide the stains that were no doubt forming until she had a chance to clean them herself. 

Her progress was measured in inches, and she felt her already scratched hands become raw from seeking purchase on the dirt and rock of the passage. She lifted her chin off of the ground, and saw with relief that the tunnel opened up and, from the shafts of light on the ground, she figured that there must be some sort of grate as well. She squirmed forward, anxious to stand again.  Just as she prepared to pull herself into the larger tunnel, her hips caught fast in the tight area she had just pulled her shoulders through. She froze, and her breath caught in her chest. She tried to pull herself forward, and when that failed, she attempted to scoot back—she was caught tightly in the grip of the earthen tunnel. 

Forcing herself to take deep, calming breaths, Solona pushed the bile that was rising back down and focused on getting herself loose. She felt around with her toes and hit the hard, rough surface of an embedded rock.  Bracing her feet on that, she reached forward with her hands in an attempt to find anything to grab hold of. She pushed and pulled simultaneously, all while attempting to wiggle her hips back and forth, and finally popped forward.  She tumbled off of a short ledge and landed in a shallow stream of water, panting for breath and massaging her sore hips.

When she got her breathing back under control, Solona looked around. Right above her there was a metal grate. Iridescent beads of moisture accumulated on the underside of the metal slabs, slowly swelling in size until they broke free to land with a soft _plink_ on the ground below. She stood and crouched under it, peering into the room that it led to. As her eyes adjusted to the bright light that streamed from the lit wall sconces, she could see several towering bookcases and enormous cobwebs that suggested that the room was rarely used. She pushed experimentally on the grate, and with a groan of protest, it lifted free from its setting. Solona set it aside and hoisted herself into the room. Listening around, it was evident that she was alone.  

She sucked in a breath as she began to explore. There were enormous statues and relics, many of which held ancient runes and writing that she could not decipher. Books written in every language imaginable were piled haphazardly on the multiple bookcases and in heaps on the floor. She sifted through the contents of several chests, and found various pieces of ancient armor and weapons that were in different stages of disrepair, and old robes in a color scheme that she did not recognize as being of the circle in Ferelden were folded neatly along the bottom. 

She wandered over to one of the bookcases and traced her fingers along the aged leather of the covers. Many of the embossed titles had peeled off or were aged beyond recognition, but one book in an ebony cover with silver lettering caught her eye.

**_Forgotten Magic from Tevinter_ **

Solona knew little of the Tevinter Imperium—she had learned that it was located in the North, and that the magisters were historically blamed for the existence of the creatures called darkspawn and corruption of mankind. She had been fascinated by the morbid tales that surrounded that elusive area of the world, and after only a moment of hesitation, plucked the book off of the shelf to take with her.

After looking around for a moment longer, Solona dropped back down through the floor grate and into the channel below, realizing just then that she was likely standing in the drainage system used to prevent flooding in the tower. She cocked her head, thinking of all of the possibilities for exploring the tower that could open up were she to find other entrances to these tunnels. She eyed the narrow passage that she needed to traverse again with trepidation. Chewing on her lower lip, she held out a hand and used a weak force spell to carve the narrow space a few scant inches wider. Another wave of her hand drew the resulting debris out and into the shallow stream of water that she now stood in, and she grinned with satisfaction now that she would not have to worry about becoming stuck again.

Back in her room Solona brushed off as much of the dirt on her shift as she was able, then slipped her regular robes on and stepped out of her wet boots. She carefully replaced the stones that she had shifted out of the way to get into the tunnel, and sat down to read the large tome.

The pages were yellowed with age, and the musty scent of mold clung to the paper. Solona lit a candle with trembling fingers and moved the feeble light closer to the page.

_The Tevinter Imperium is a land of mystery to those who have not lived under the Archon. Though it is widely known that, unlike the rest of Thedas, Tevinter is ruled by a powerful mageocracy, most of their methods are shrouded in secrecy._

Solona chuckled, thinking that Anders in particular would be fascinated by this book. Though he’d never actively spouted about mage supremacy, he’d made no secret of the fact that he was strongly pro-freedom for mages.

_The magisters are revered throughout Tevinter, even into the current age. They are perhaps most infamously known for their widespread use of blood magic, wherein a mage taps into their own life energy (with the aid of a Fade demon) to supplement their own power. Although blood magic is officially banned in the Imperium, it is no secret that most of the magisters still abide by ancient tradition. Indeed, it has even been documented that those in line to become magisters are coached by their mentors on the best possible ways to conduct business with the creatures of the Fade._

_Throughout most of Thedas, blood magic is a taboo subject, and those who use that power are hunted and eliminated by the ever-vigilant templars of the Divine. The power that a mage is able to draw with only a few drops of blood is indeed a terrifying sight to behold. It is this power that has allowed the magisters to maintain such a tight grasp over the Soporati class of citizens. The magisters have mastered the art of “dream-walking,” which allows the mage in question to actively visit and influence non-mages in their subconscious dream-state. This controversial practice is strongly frowned upon outside of the Imperium—and with good reason. The length to which the magisters have gone in their dream-walking to exert control seems to know no bounds; men have murdered family members who merely voice concerns over the rule of the mages, merchants have given over their entire life-savings to fund the project of a magister without question, and parents have handed over their children to live as slaves to serve the every whim of their master._

_The blood magic that has been used is not limited to control of the mind, either. It is common knowledge that slavery is still legal in the Imperium, and various ports throughout the rest of Thedas—aided by money-hungry hands—transport elves and humans alike to serve the magisters in Tevinter. The atrocities that have been committed against these poor souls are not easily described. Augmented by blood magic, particularly malevolent masters have been known to keep slaves trapped in excruciatingly painful telekinetic cages for days at a time. Slaves have also been bled to death as sacrifices to power particularly taxing spells. More recently, however, reports have come through that some of the more powerful and wealthy magisters have been importing vast quantities of pure lyrium for some unknown purpose. All that is currently known is that numerous slaves are brought out dead days later, and some seem to go missing without explanation._

_Although most of the rest of Thedas has at least heard the rumors of these horrific acts, it is difficult to justify going to war against the Imperium. They have been fighting for centuries against the Qunari of Par Vollen and Seheron, and it is the belief and hope of many that their current preoccupation with that situation will ultimately lead to their fall. Additionally, the Qunari are renowned fighters, and even the nations that are most vehemently opposed to slavery and blood magic are hesitant to involve themselves—either as allies or enemies—with the followers of the Qun._

Solona stopped reading, her hands trembling as she shut the book. Her stomach rolled at the vivid imagery of the book’s descriptions of the magisters’ use of blood magic and the helpless people that it was used against. Although she had often felt shackled in the tower, she could not deny that it had helped her to develop her talent in a safe and supervised environment. She, like all of the rest of the apprentices, had heard terrible stories of mages who had fallen prey to demons and had to be struck down. Though she had never seen an abomination personally, she shuddered to think that if she had grown up in a society like the Imperium, chances were very good that she would already be caught in the grasp of a demon, bent to its twisted desires like a puppet on a string. 

Perhaps the circles really _weren’t_ as bad as Anders made them out to be. She certainly knew that no matter what the temptation, blood magic was never worth any offer. The mages of the Imperium clearly did not think along those lines, and from an outsider’s perspective, the power that they had been granted ages ago was clearly not in the best interest of all of the regular citizens who served the mages. 

_Magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him…_

The familiar line from Transfigurations floated through Solona’s head, and it rang more true to her than it ever had before. Clearly, if the Tevinter Imperium could be taken as an example, magic serving over man had the very real possibility to cause widespread corruption, pain, and fear.

Shocked at her revelation, and more grateful than ever that she lived in a place as secure and supportive as Kinloch Hold, Solona resolved to tell Anders what she had learned as soon as he was brought back to the tower. Perhaps _this_ could change his mind on the purpose of the circles.

***

_Dragon 9:29, Bloomingtide 8_

***

Solona woke with a start as the heavy door at the end of the hallway slammed open against the wall, the sound reverberating throughout the narrow stone passage. She had fallen asleep reading more of the book, it’s undoubtedly morbid contents holding a strange fascination with her. Truly, there was no doubt as to why the first enchanter had hidden this book away from prying eyes. She hastily slid the tome underneath her mat and sat up, running her hands through her hair. It was a lost cause: she’d been allowed a brief bath two days before, but the harsh soap that she’d been given hadn’t adequately cleansed her thick tresses, and even keeping it tied away from her face and in a knot at the top of her head hadn’t prevented knotting.

As she wiped the sleep from her eyes, she heard a familiar voice echo down to where she sat.

“You know, boys, I _really_ thought that I was going to make it all the way to Denerim this time! Or at the least, Highever.” Anders was being as cheeky as ever, even though Solona knew that his magic would have been stripped from him from the moment he’d been captured. The sensation was not a pleasant one, Solona knew from experience. “Have either of you been to Denerim? No? I’ve heard the most _marvelous_ things about a fine little establishment there called The Pearl. Ah! Solona!”

Anders and his guards had reached her cell and he caught sight of her. He was wearing some sort of green tunic over plain cotton britches, and both arms were restrained behind his back. Although he sagged in the tight grip of his captors, his eyes hadn’t been blackened, and his tone was cheerful as he spoke.

“I’ve been trying to tell these three the entire way back to the tower that you had nothing to do with my latest adventures traipsing across the Ferelden countryside. You should have seen all the flowers in bloom this time of year, Solona! Alas, they don’t seem to care about anything I have to say.” He turned his head to call back to her as he was led further down the hall to one of the far cells. “I’ll talk to you more as soon as they’ve dumped me off!”

Solona couldn’t help but giggle at her friend’s antics. He’d always managed to be so blasé, even when facing the wrath of the first enchanter and templars alike. She was about to turn back to sit at her desk under the pretense of studying when the templar guards marched past again. She cocked her head to the side as one of them faltered almost imperceptibly in his stride. She took a hesitant step forward, and as they swept out of view, she saw something white flutter to the ground just outside of her cell door. She knelt down, and picked up a folded piece of parchment. As she opened it, a silvery object fell to the ground with a soft clink—it was her bracelet. She’d forgotten that it had never been returned to her in the chaos of Anders’ escape out by the lake.

As she slipped the trinket onto her wrist, smiling at its return, she turned her attention to the note. With a smile and laugh, she read the exact words that she had once left in a note to someone that she’d taken notice of. The handwriting was bold and each character on the page was drawn with precise lines.

_You shouldn’t leave something like this just lying about… Anybody could find it!_

_-C_

 


	7. Chapter 7

_Dragon 9:29, Bloomingtide 3_

_Cullen_

The short boat ride across Lake Calenhad did nothing to soothe Cullen’s strained nerves. The aging ferryman’s idle chatter and ill-concealed amusement that Anders had escaped once again were certainly not helping, either. The small craft nudged the shore as the sun dipped nearly to the horizon, casting long shadows and bathing the earth in an orange glow. 

Ser Bran thanked Kester for his services, and pressed a few silvers into the man’s palm before turning to the two younger templars. With a flick of his head, he indicated that they should move out of earshot before discussing their plan.

As they crested the hill that led to the Imperial Highway, Bran rounded on them. “All right, you two, I realize that Anders’ escapes are rather more… routine than we would like, but that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t take this seriously. If he continues to flaunt his uncanny knack for slipping away, especially directly under our noses—” he eyed Warren coldly, here, “the templars of Kinloch Hold are going to be under serious scrutiny.”

Cullen nodded his understanding, ashamed that his bunkmate had allowed his attention to wander from their duty of watching the mages at all times—the sacred task that was given to them by the Maker Himself. 

“Ser Cullen,” Bran addressed him directly. “Although I am the senior templar on this mission, the knight-commander has requested that I allow one of you two to lead in order to gain more experience. I have decided that you will take on this responsibility, as your friend here clearly can’t even pay attention to the mages not ten paces away from him.”

Warren had the grace to lower his head in embarrassment under the stern gaze of his superior. 

“Very well, ser,” Cullen replied with a nod, his chest swelling with pride.

Bran pulled a small, glass phial from his pouch and handed it to Cullen. The crimson blood within swirled, causing the crystal container to shimmer ruby red in the evening light. “Here is the mage’s phylactery. I assume that you remember your training on tracking?”

Cullen nodded and accepted the proffered flask. The pages from texts he had committed to memory long ago jumped to the forefront of his mind. He pulled a vial of lyrium out and knocked it back quickly, wincing as the cold flames of the potion licked at his throat. He cupped the vial in his hands and closed his eyes, allowing the ancient magic that bound templar and mage to course through him. He then called upon the same magic that allowed templars to repel magic, using it to activate the vials of lyrium-enhanced blood. He felt a deep thrum in his chest as he sensed the blood connect to its living owner somewhere across the countryside. The vibration slowed, and it was as though a second heartbeat now pulled at him from deep within. 

His eyes fluttered open, and filled with a heady sense of power, Cullen glanced at the phylactery. The dark liquid now pulsed with faint blue light that would intensify as they drew nearer to Anders. Focusing again on the pull from his chest, Cullen pointed to their left at the winding highway.

“We head northeast.”

***

Though they had travelled hard for several hours, lack of daylight forced the templars to call a halt sooner than they would have liked. They were skilled warriors—each had won at least one major tournament prior to coming to the circle—but it would not be prudent to tempt fate in woods where bandits, wolves, and assassins were known to lurk.

Warren, who had been quiet for much of their forced march, busied himself starting a fire while chewing on some of the tough, dried meat they had brought along as rations. Cullen was last watch that night, and settled down onto his bedroll after checking the phylactery to ensure that the glowing had strengthened. He knew that he should get some rest, but the unfamiliar rhythm that coursed through his veins was difficult to ignore. Rolling on his side away from the flickering light of the fire, Cullen allowed his restless mind to wander. 

The events of that morning crashed through his hastily erected mental barriers, and he frowned into the darkness. He couldn’t believe that he had been so easily fooled by a mage, and that _she_ of all people was behind the ridicule he had faced. What did it matter if she had dark hair that cascaded around her shoulders and framed her soft face, illuminating those captivating eyes—

_No! Enough with these treacherous thoughts. I didn’t go through twelve years of hard training to be undone by the first pretty face I see._

He knew that he couldn’t allow his thoughts to linger on her any more, lest they become impure. Serious prayer for forgiveness was already in order to atone for his wandering eyes at the lake. He had be told over and again by his mentors at the Redcliffe chantry that temptations of the flesh were to be staunchly avoided as an ordained warrior of the Divine—though he and his brothers were not required to take the same vows as those promised to the chantry did, expectations of them remained the same, even if they were left unsaid. 

_She has no doubt been put before me as a test of my dedication. I will not falter again. It is best to put thoughts of Solona Amell far from my mind._

Cullen rolled onto his back. Through narrowed lids he watched the tiny pricks of light in the sky twinkle against their indigo backdrop. Regardless of the fact that he had just committed himself to ignoring all thoughts of Solona, Cullen’s throat tightened strangely despite his resolve. As he drifted into an uneasy sleep, his dreams were dragged inexorably to thoughts of cerulean eyes and a mischievous smile.

***

_Dragon 9:29, Bloomingtide 5_

***

Enormous walls that were blackened with age and smoke rose ominously before the group of templars. As they approached the main entrance, Cullen frowned at the gates. Though they had no doubt once been strong, oaken barriers that effectively protected the fortress of West Hill, years of neglect had reduced them to rotting monuments of what they had been. He raised a hand and pounded hard, splinters of wood falling away in the wake of his gauntlet. 

A small metal panel creaked open, and a balding guard peered through. “Yes? State your business or leave us in peace.” The man’s acrid tone was accompanied by a strong whiff of alcohol.

Cullen furrowed his brow, frowning at the inebriated state of the guard. “We are here on templar business. We request entrance and cooperation from you and the other inhabitants of the fortress.”

The man squinted his watery eyes, nodding as he recognized the sword of mercy insignia emblazoned on the armor that Cullen and his comrades wore. “Very well, sers. Come in if you must. We don’t want any trouble though, hear?”

“There will be no trouble unless some of your numbers see fit to stand between us and the mage we search for.” Bran stepped forward and replied with a hard edge to his voice. Clearly, he was a man used to having complete cooperation from locals wherever he traveled. 

The guard frowned, but nodded before slamming the peephole cover shut. Clanking and several colorful curses were heard through the door as the drunken man unbarred the door, and the gate finally swung open with a groan. Cullen and the others strode in, and as soon as they were out of sight of the surly gatekeeper, he paused and brought out the phylactery. The blue light within the blood radiated brightly, and Cullen could feel the magic burning hot within him. Anders was close.

They strode through the dirt streets of the fortress in search of their wayward mage. Most of the watchtowers that were posted along the walls appeared to be unmanned—and with good reason. Heaps of rock that had crumbled away sat at the base of most of them, and the tower directly to their left listed precariously across the main wall. Like the defenses of the fortress itself, much of the small village within the walls seemed to have fallen prey to years of neglect, as well. Small cottages with sagging thatched roofs appeared to be mostly abandoned. The only signs of life that came from a few of them were wisps of smoke from the chimneys or drapes being drawn hastily shut as they approached. 

West Hill was a grim place, indeed. The legends said that a huge network of abandoned tunnels connected all of the areas of the fortress, and that long-lost workers and plunderers who had died within those mazes now haunted the town. Cullen didn’t believe a word of it. The closest thing to a ghost that they were likely to see would be the lackluster people of the village themselves. From his years of study, Cullen knew that corpses could be reanimated through the use of powerful blood magic, but that was entirely different from a ghost. He frowned. Although this Anders had never shown any sign of blood magic in the past, it certainly didn’t mean that they could rule that possibility out. He checked that his sword was close at hand, and prayed that the mage would not resort to such desperate measures upon being apprehended. If he was as lucky as many of his friends had been, Cullen would never have to face a demon or abomination in the flesh.

“Hello, boys.” A honeyed voice brought Cullen’s attention back to the grimy street that they traveled. A young girl in an outfit that was altogether far too revealing for an evening as cool as this one sashayed up to them. Cullen gave her a cursory glance before averting his eyes. She was likely no older than he was, and the way she carried herself and jutted her more prominent assets out suggested that she knew exactly how well the thin material of her blouse clung to her curves. Cullen much preferred the innocent appeal that Solona held to the brazen attitude of this young woman. 

Rigidly focusing on her dark brown eyes, Cullen addressed her. “Good evening, miss. Perhaps you might be able to assist us.” As soon as the words had left his lips, Cullen berated himself for his choice in phrasing.

Her painted lips curved into a coy smile. “I’m sure that I’ll be able to… _assist_ you in whatever you might desire, handsome. Why don’t you join me for an unforgettable evening at the local inn—your friends can come along too.” She strode closer and winked, her generous hips swaying in the moonlight.

“Er, no. Thank you,” Cullen stammered, whipping his head back with an annoyed look in place as Bran coughed away his laughter. “We are actually looking for someone. He is somewhat shorter than I, and of slighter build with shoulder-length blonde hair. He was last seen wearing dark blue robes. Have you seen anyone of that description?”

The girl giggled and placed three slender fingers to her lips. “Hmm. Well, I _may_ have seen someone like that lurking about, but I just _can’t_ seem to remember.” She raised her eyebrows and stepped closer, nearly pressing herself against Cullen. “A little kiss might jog my memory…”

“Ah,” Cullen stumbled back. “Miss, I am here on official, templar business—”

Her eyes lit up lasciviously as she leaned forward. “A templar! My, but I do love a man in armor. And, I must say that you wear yours _very_ well.” Delicate hands traced the pattern on his pauldrons.

Cullen raised his voice to speak over her, hoping that the night was dark enough to hide his burning cheeks. “From your comments earlier, it seems as though you know something that might help us. If you refuse, we will be forced to report you for harboring a potentially dangerous fugitive.”

She folded her arms and pouted. “No need to get quite so touchy, darling.” She jerked her thumb behind her. “Just down the road is a little establishment called ‘The Aging Dragon.’ You’ll probably find him there. He’s already made quite the name for himself among the women of this town with this little trick he does…”

Cullen inclined his head in acknowledgement. “Thank you for your cooperation, miss.”

As he was about to walk in the direction that she had indicated, the girl blocked his path, grinning once more. “Would you give him a message for me when you find him?” She waited expectantly until Cullen cautiously nodded. With an odd glint in her eye, she popped up onto her toes and planted a loud kiss full on his mouth before running away and giggling. 

Cullen cleared his throat in embarrassment as Warren and Bran laughed heartily behind him. By the time they reached their destination, they had all barely regained their composure. The building that the girl had directed the templars to looked questionable at best from the exterior, which was no surprise given the condition of the rest of the village. The stone walls had been painted red, and a poorly carved representation of a dragon’s gaping maw acted as the entrance to the building, complete with cracked stone “teeth.”

They stepped inside and were immediately engulfed in heavy smoke that hung throughout the central room. Cullen wrinkled his nose at the bitter smell of burning spindleweed. He hoped that they would be able to leave without delay, lest the drug-like effects of the enhanced herb muddle his senses. He strode further into the room and looked around. A dirty bar dominated the back wall of the room, and a bartender with a thick, black beard stared at the three of them, rhythmically wiping a cracked mug with a rag of questionable cleanliness. The lighting was dim, and a number of women of the same… disposition as the one they had met on the street were scattered throughout, many hanging off of the arms of drunken patrons. One such patron sat at a corner table that was half hidden in darkness, his light hair glowing in the faint light. A young woman sat on his lap, her arms looped around his neck, and the two were kissing enthusiastically. Cullen glanced back at Warren and Bran, and the elder templar just rolled his eyes as if to say, _this happens every time we come after him_.

Cullen squared his shoulders and strode purposefully towards the mage. At the templars’ approach, Anders disentangled himself from the girl’s grip and, taking Cullen completely aback, waved cheerily at the three of them.

“Why, hello there! I must say, you three are rather more efficient than the boys they sent after me two months ago. Give me just a moment and I’ll be happy to head outside and back to dear old Daddy Irving at the circle.” 

Anders’ response was not at all what Cullen had been expecting. Resistance, yes, but complete nonchalance had not even crossed his mind. He walked forward, preparing to drain the mage’s mana prior to restraining him. Anders sighed in resignation and turned to the dark-haired girl on his lap. 

“Sorry, sweetheart. I’d love to spend more time with you, but these gentlemen are rather impatient. How about one more kiss to remember me by?” The mage leaned forward and pressed his lips to hers, his arm snaking around her waist to press his fingers to the base of her spine. Cullen barely saw the tiny flash of white light escape the mage’s fingers that was the apparent cause for the breathy moan that escaped the girl’s lips. With a satisfied smirk, Anders slipped out from the chair, blowing a kiss behind him before walking straight past the templars and out the door, waving his fingers for them to follow.

_The insolence of this mage!_ Cullen couldn’t help but shake his head and stride out the door after Anders.

Out in the cool night air and away from the smoke, Cullen cut off his connection to Anders’ phylactery, relishing the return to normalcy that it afforded. Anders stood silently in the middle of the street and smiled at Cullen before spreading his arms to the side. “All right, my friend. Hit me with your best shot.”

Cullen glanced at Bran for affirmation, and getting a terse nod from the older templar, turned back to the relaxed mage before him. He released a burst of energy to cut Anders’ tie to the Fade, and saw him stagger. Cullen was surprised—he no longer sensed any magic in the area, but when he had seen a smite used on mages previously, all of them had collapsed from the sudden severing from their power. Perhaps Anders’ fortitude was a result of having had this particular practice used on him so many times in the past. Regardless, Cullen couldn’t help but be impressed by the mage’s strength. He strode forward, and bound Anders’ hands behind his back. Bran nodded in approval, and the four of them moved out of the city and to the outskirts of the woods to camp for the evening. 

***

_Dragon 9:29, Bloomingtide 6_

***

“It’s time,” Bran said in a low voice to Cullen. 

The sun was nearing its zenith, and the templars and their ward had already been traveling south for several hours. They hoped to reach Lake Calenhad by late the next evening and cross to the tower the following morning. Cullen had yet to interrogate Anders about the details of his escape, which was required of all templars who successfully recaptured an escapee. He slowed his pace to walk astride Anders. The mage was humming to himself and casting his eyes all around the countryside, as if to soak in every glorious aspect of the outside world before being returned to the circle. Cullen felt a dull pang in his chest as he realized that some of the mages—particularly those who had been discovered at a young age—had likely never seen anything of the world beyond the small island that housed Kinloch Hold. 

_Perhaps that’s why some of them, like Anders, crave freedom so much. Even we templars occasionally feel confined._

He gave himself a shake, remembering his sworn duties to the order. He turned to Anders and began his questioning. “Apprentice, how did you manage to escape? Did you have help?”

The young blonde gave him a wry grin. “Now _that_ is quite the tale, templar. And no—I acted on my own. Really, nobody else at the tower has the flair for escape that I do.” He sighed dramatically before inclining his head in Warren’s direction. “When dimwit over there got caught up in the little drama that was unfolding on the dock, I decided to take advantage of the situation, much as any other enterprising young mage might. I cast a simple glamour duplication charm to create a double of myself—if not nearly as handsome, of course. Once that was in place, I set off for shore.”

Cullen raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean, you ‘set off for shore?’”

Anders let out his breath noisily, clearly annoyed that he had to explain this further. “I swam across the bloody lake, of course. It’s not too hard if you don’t wear your own weight in steel, you know. Well, that and knowing how to alter your perceived density helps to make floating easier. In any case, by the time I got across the lake, nobody had noticed yet that I was gone. You _may_ want to bring that up with your friend, there.”

Cullen was speechless. How could Anders speak so carelessly when he was at their mercy? Before he could think further, though, the mage was already elaborating in a rather theatrical manner.

“Well, with the wind in my face and the countryside calling to me, I just had to decide what I wanted to do. The last time I went on holiday, I tried to make it to Denerim. Now, you haven’t been with us at the circle for too long, but I’m sure you’ve heard how well that turned out for me. I decided to try a different direction, especially since it would likely take me a week or more to get as far east as Denerim and sample its many pleasures. To the south is Lothering, but I’ve already been there—not too much goes on there. North was rather unknown to me. I have heard tales of Highever and the golden mead that it is famed for. However, not even this drink that is probably sipped by the Maker Himself could compare to what I really wanted to see: Elissa Cousland.”

Anders threw his head back and gazed rapturously into the sky. “Now, I’m not sure if you chantry-going types pay attention to this type of thing, but her beauty is the stuff of _legend_. She is eighteen years old, and it’s been said that she’s even caught the attention of nobles as far as Kirkwall and Orlais! Perfection, I believe, is the word that is most used to describe her. Tall, slim in all the right places, curvy in all the others… hair that’s fiery enough to set any man’s heart—and desire—ablaze, grey eyes that could command the rain to fall, and her lips! Oh, surely her lips could send any man, whether human, elf, or dwarf, instantly into throes of—”

“Yes, apprentice. I think I get the picture.” Cullen cut him off, not wanting to hear any more sordid details from deep within Anders’ obviously active imagination. 

Anders sighed. “Fine. But really, do you fellows actually ever have fun? With anything?”

Cullen bit off a retort, not willing to give the insufferable mage the satisfaction of a response. He could tell that it was going to be a long trip back to the tower.

***

Late that evening the small group camped in a clearing within the deciduous woods that they traveled through. Warren started a small, smoky fire from the damp branches that he had scavenged for, and Bran had managed to find an assortment of tubers to supplement their dwindling supply of dried meat. Conversation had been minimal after Anders had finished talking of his escape and the aftermath. Surprisingly, the mage maintained that Solona had nothing to do with his escape, despite the suspicious timing and their known friendship. Cullen had personally found it difficult to believe that Anders had been able to pull of such an escape without some sort of help. Granted, he doubted that the mage had told the complete truth regarding his swim across the lake.

Cullen was first watch that evening, and after the long hours of traveling, Bran and Warren retired to their bedrolls soon after they had eaten, and the sound of deep, even breathing soon reached Cullen’s ears. Anders, however, showed no signs of tiring, and despite being devoid of mana the mage remained buoyant and chatty. The two of them sat at the fire, Cullen doing his best to ignore the idle comments that the mage prattled on about. Despite his best intentions, though, Anders’ next words drew his full attention like a chantry brother to worship.

“Don’t think I haven’t noticed how you look at Amell, templar,” Anders said slyly.

Cullen’s head whipped around to face the insufferable mage. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

Anders’ chuckled. “This is just too precious! Ah, the ever-popular, yet tragic, love story of templar and mage. Your reaction was perfect! Here you’ve been staunchly ignoring me all evening, but at the first mention of darling Solona has you hissing like a cat!”

Cullen remained silent, fuming at his misstep. Hadn’t he just resolved to think of her as no more than a mage of the circle only days before?

“Let me put your tender heart at ease, Ser Cullen. I’m going to go ahead and guess that you’re just _dying_ at the thought of dear, sweet Solona having anything to do with all of these dreadful things that have happened over the past several weeks. Well, she certainly _has_ been involved—oh yes—however, Solona actually fought me on the last bit of debauchery we pulled.” Catching Cullen’s stunned look, Anders continued with a grin, lounging against the back of the stump he was propped in front of. “You see, templar, I caught her ogling you from the library window a few days ago while you were all whacking one another with swords, and she was positively misty-eyed!” Anders let out an exasperated sigh. “Women. All they seem to care about are big muscles and swoon-worthy eyes. Well, I saw her staring at you and realized that she really has been a bit lonely for the last few weeks. Petra—who you probably don’t know—just passed her Harrowing and has been very distant ever since. Those two used to be close, and now she won’t even pass Solona a quill if she asks.”

Cullen felt his heart jolt. _Who could ever see fit to neglect one such as her?_

“Everyone thinks that Solona is next up for her Harrowing, and there’s no doubt in anyone’s mind that she’ll pass, but she’s worried that she won’t. She’s daft, really. She’s far more talented in primal spells than most of the full mages! But to cut a long story short, I’m fairly certain that as silly as she might be, our sweet, lonely Solona is—for some unfathomable reason—completely and totally taken with you.” Although Anders spat out the words as if they were the bitter taste of a health potion, Cullen’s treacherous heart leapt with joy within his chest in hope. 

_Could she really have noticed me? Surely not—I’ve done nothing of note in the time that I’ve been at the tower…_

At these ridiculous thoughts, Cullen shook his head in derision. There was no use caring what a mage may or may not think of him. He had nearly worked up the courage to speak to Anders when the man yawned with no small amount of melodrama. 

“I believe that I will retire for the night, brave templar. Sleep well—I know that I shall, knowing that one such as you is keeping the terrors of the night at bay.”

Cullen ignored the mocking tone and fixated on the haphazard tongues of fire before him. After the mage had settled down and his breathing had evened, Cullen let out a deep breath of air he had been holding in. He reached into the leather pouch beside him and pulled out the cool, metal circlet that he’d wrapped in a soft piece of fur.

The delicate leaves of ivy reflected the orange flames of the fire, and his calloused finger traced the elaborate convolutions of the metal. His thoughts turned to the owner of the bangle, much as they had the past several days.

_Who am I to pass judgment on her? Is it really a sin that she was born with an affinity to the Fade? I do not see her using her power for evil. Dare I even think that Anders might be right—could the embodiment of untainted perfection actually feel something more than a passing fancy for me? Surely not. But I can certainly treat her with the respect and admiration that she deserves._

Filled with an apprehension and sense of purpose that he’d never felt before, Cullen reached for the roll of parchment that he’d brought along. He gazed at the silver bracelet once more, and with a soft smile of inspiration, began to write.

***

_Dragon 9:29, Bloomingtide 8_

***

As Cullen and Warren marched Anders down to the solitary confinement cells, the rapid flutter of his heart was caused not by physical exertion, but rather anticipation. He’d made the decision in the peace of the wilderness to forgive Solona for what he now realized was innocent and playful teasing. His more startling revelation, though, was his cautious belief that mages also deserved a shot at happiness. Though their confinement in the tower was for the safety of regular citizens and mages alike, he didn’t see how the Maker could deny them a simple friendship.

And so, as a token of his goodwill, Cullen had Solona’s bracelet tucked into the note he had written to her.

The inane prattling of Anders was of no interest to Cullen—not when compared to the sweet lilt of the girl who was confined in one of the first cells. Her soft peal of laughter lifted the cloud of worry that had descended on his heart when he’d heard of her imprisonment. 

At long last, Anders was thrust unceremoniously into his cell, and Cullen maneuvered himself so that he strode on the right side of the corridor. As they passed Solona’s cell, he didn’t dare chance a glance at her. Instead, he pulled the small parcel out of his bag and carefully dropped it next to her door. Time would tell if she would be receptive to this small gesture.

Safely hidden behind his helm, Cullen smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Side note: Anders, though not one of the lead characters in this story, is very possibly my favorite guy to write. Let me know what you think!


	8. Chapter 8

_Dragon 9:29, Bloomingtide 10_

_Amell_

***

A soft creak, the quiet sound of a draft from the upper levels of the tower, and the hard thud of an oaken door against stone wall were the first sounds to jar Solona from her restless sleep.

She propped herself up and rubbed the grit from her eyes, groaning at her protesting back—the knots that had resulted from too many nights sleeping upon the hard pallet would take weeks to disappear. She sat up straighter at the clink of a key in her lock.

“Apprentice Amell, please, follow me.” The muffled voice was deep and did not belong to the templar whose molten eyes and tentative smile tempted her from the Fade.

She hastily gathered the few books that were strewn on the worn desk in her cell and followed the man’s already retreating form. As they emerged into the central foyer on the main floor, Solona squinted against the bright, buttery light streaming through the eastern windows. Progressing through the halls that led to the staircase, Solona noted the lack of people clamoring through the hall—she surmised that it must be the breakfast hour, and the faint whiff of toasted bread that wafted past confirmed her suspicions. 

Several minutes later, Solona and her escort arrived at the first enchanter’s office. The door was open, and both Irving and the knight-commander were already present. 

“Ah, Solona,” the first enchanter said with a smile, “please, come in and have a seat.” He gestured to one of the red velvet and gilt wingback chairs that sat at the long table. 

Solona lowered herself onto the plush seat, reveling in the comfort it afforded.

“Let’s get down to business, shall we?” Greagoir sat stiffly into his own chair across from her. “I’ve a great deal to take care of today, Irving, what with your mages loosing those stink bombs in the templar hallway. I swear that if Owain doesn’t come up with some sort of enchanted cleaner, none of us will be able to sleep in there for a week.”

Irving appeared to be having just as much difficulty as Solona holding in his amusement. “Dear me, Greagoir, haven’t you figured out who did that, yet?”

“No,” he replied stiffly before shooting a sideways glance at Solona. “We don’t have any leads, either—our two prime suspects both happened to be in solitary confinement yesterday evening. Unless… do _you_ have any idea who may have been inclined to pull such a stunt, apprentice?”

Solona did indeed have a _very_ good idea who it had been, but she wasn’t about to throw Neria or Jowan in front of a wagon. She arranged her face into a carefully concerned expression. “No, ser. I’m certain that Owain will have something for you soon, though. He’s most proficient at that sort of thing.”

Greagoir’s steely gaze held hers for a moment. “Very well, Apprentice Amell.”

Perhaps in an attempt to diffuse the situation, Irving cut in, “I believe what the knight-commander is trying to get at, my dear, is that we have reviewed your case. After consideration, we have determined that you are free from solitary confinement, as Anders was extensively questioned yesterday afternoon and said nothing that would implicate you as an accomplice.” The first enchanter smiled and leaned back in his seat, looking very much the part of indulgent mentor.

“Further,” Greagoir added, “as you were detained in solitary confinement for longer than we initially anticipated, it has been decided that no further punishment will be necessary for the aggravation you caused to one of my men.”

Solona nodded her head, trying not to smirk.

_If he only knew the earlier pranks were because of my friends and me, too._

As it was, it appeared that the vigilant templar commander _did_ in fact have very strong suspicions about the culprits. She made a note to be more careful with any pranks she and her friends decided to concoct in the future.

“I believe that’s it, then?” Irving looked to the knight-commander for verification.

Greagoir stood. “Yes. You are free to go, apprentice.”

“Thank you, ser.” Solona rose and exited the room quietly, intent on dropping off her books and taking a much needed bath.

***

The halls were still largely deserted when Solona left the first enchanter’s office. Reveling in her newfound freedom, even the everyday items she normally passed by without a second glance seemed engaging. The wall sconces had never before been so immaculately burnished, nor the carpeting so plush and spongy underfoot. She smiled as she noticed a spider’s web in the outside corner of a window, and slowed to examine the silken threads that had been painstakingly strung together into an intricate, concentric spiral. Miniscule beads of dew glittered in the early morning sunlight, bobbing precariously from their fragile tethers. 

_I wonder… does Cullen ever take the time to look at things this way?_

As if to answer her internal musings, footsteps came closer. Excited, Solona turned around to greet him.

It was not her templar.

“Hello, Solona,” a deep, grating voice greeted her. Its owner leaned casually against the stone wall, carelessly flinging open the window and sundering the fragile web that she had been examining just moments before. Deep brown eyes—almost black—raked up and down her body from under a mop of carefully messy dark hair.

“Match,” she said, greeting him cautiously. Despite the toned physique that his robes did not fully conceal and tanned face that could have passed for a granite bust of one of the Maker’s favored, Solona had never liked Match. The older boy was arrogant to the extreme, and rude and condescending to the younger apprentices. If she remembered correctly, he had passed his Harrowing fairly recently and was likely eager to flaunt his perceived superiority.

“I just heard that someone’s been rather… naughty.” He smirked, and Solona was certain that, coupled with his ogling, the choice of wording was not coincidental. “Imagine, you of all people—one of Irving’s favorites—running amok and taunting the templars. I would have thought better of you!”

“Yes, well, I suppose even the best of us fall prey to bouts of boredom every so often,” Solona replied acidly. 

“Boredom, is it?” One dark eyebrow arched incredulously. “You know, some of us have another theory, and I don’t think your excess of time has anything to do with it.”

Solona sighed, realizing that the easiest way to get rid of him was to resign herself to listening for the moment. She supposed that she could always just walk off, but she didn’t really want to make him _too_ mad. “Well, Match, why don’t you enlighten me and tell me what my own motivations are, then?”

He chuckled, though the amusement didn’t reach his dark eyes. “ _Some_ of the apprentices seem to think that you might actually have some sort of soft spot for this new templar. What is it, again?  Caiden, Colin, Cailan—”

“Cullen,” Solona put in icily, then nearly slapped her palm over her mouth when she realized she’d only fueled the fire. Heat rose to her cheeks.

Match smiled with satisfaction. “Oh, of course! Cullen. Silly me, forgetting. As I was saying, some people seem to think you’re a bit soft on the brawny fellow. _I_ , of course, know better, and rest assured that I’ve told everyone that they must be mistaken. It is ludicrous to even think that you’d notice—let alone be interested in—a mage hunter.”

Solona’s cheeks burned, and although she’d never admit to it, her thoughts had strayed to Cullen far more than was appropriate. “Of course it’s ridiculous, Match. I’m certainly glad that at least _you’ve_ seen reason.”

“I know. Really, considering all the other eligible men in the circle that are here—and mages like you, to boot—it would be unthinkable that someone like him would catch your attention.”

Solona just nodded.

“Speaking of which,” he said offhandedly while casually flicking a speck of dust from his sleeve, “how would you like to join me for dinner tonight?”

“Ah, well, I’m having dinner with my friends,” she began nervously, her eyes darting to take in any possible escape routes to in case a quick exit was needed, “but I suppose it would be all right if you joined us.”

His brilliant smile faded. “Possibly. I would, however, like to speak with you a bit more… privately. About spells and such, of course,” he added, waving a hand. “As I’ve already passed my Harrowing—one of the fastest times this year, coincidentally—I thought I’d maybe be able to help you study, seeing as you’re probably behind after your little error in judgment.”

“Thank you for the offer, Match, but I think I’ll actually be able to catch up on my own and with the help of my friend, Neria.” Solona took an involuntary step back.

“Really, Solona, I insist,” he said, charisma radiating from his falsely earnest eyes and incline of his head. “As a full mage, I _do_ have permission to entertain… visitors in my new, private quarters. I’d love to show you around—and help you study, of course.”

Solona hardened her expression into firm lines. “What exactly are you implying, Match?”

His smile deepened, and darkened. “Come now, Solona. Surely you aren’t as naive as you’re pretending to be?”

“If you’re suggesting what I think you are, Match, then the answer is no.”

An ugly scowl traced its way across his face, its appearance marring the dark perfection. “Hmm. Is that so? I’m telling you, Solona: get your priorities straight. Sooner or later, I’m sure that you’ll see it my way.”

“I doubt that very much. Listen, Match, I’m sure that there are dozens of other girls that would be more than willing to see your new room and take you up on the offer of private tutoring. I’m not one of those girls, though.” Without waiting for a reply, Solona spun around and headed for her room at a brisk walk, the dark laugh that followed her crawling down her spine as she went. 

***

_Dragon 9:29, Bloomingtide 14_

***

It was a swelteringly hot day. Absent was the cooling breeze from the lake that was commonplace, and even the windows that were thrown wide open in an attempt to dissipate some of the stale air did nothing to cool the rooms in the tower. Although young mages were taught early on that using their powers for the mundane was both impractical and irresponsible, many snuck into corners to cast ice spells in an attempt to cool off. After the third apprentice attempting such magic beyond their level found themselves blue in the lips and with frostbitten fingers, their instructors had been forced to call for extra templar eyes to watch for these desperate spellcasters.

Despite their best efforts, most of the enchanters were forced to cut classes short in the afternoon, as most of their pupils were either asleep or glassy-eyed and slack-jawed from the oppressive heat. 

That afternoon found Solona and her friends in their usual spot in the library. Anders had been removed from solitary confinement but sentenced to a month’s worth of scouring empty reagent bottles with the stockroom Tranquil. After declaring that he couldn’t possibly get into any more trouble than he already had, Anders—without so much as a glance in the direction of the templar guard—cast a spell that sent a slow breeze of icy air around them all. Sighing in relief, they pulled out books, vellum, and quills, and prepared to work.

Two bells later, the ink and quills remained untouched, and the books had only been leafed through mechanically as the friends brought each other up to date. Neria and Jowan had first told their friends about their attempt to keep the gauntlet going in their absence, laughing quietly as they recalled the stampede of templars leaving the hall once the bombs had gone off. The next hour had been taken up by Anders’ recollections of his most recent foray across the country, complete with elaborations so asinine that none believed all he said.

“Ah, to be really, truly free,” the young blonde sighed, his head propped up lazily on one hand. “You’ve no idea the fun that we could all have. Sneaking into the castles of the arlings, pretending to be nobles, causing havoc with locals… the possibilities really are endless.”

Solona glanced furtively back to ensure none others were listening in. “Speaking of freedom, Anders, there is something I have to tell you that I think you’ll be interested in.”

“Pray do tell.” He sounded anything but enthralled, and didn’t bother to cover his mouth that gaped in a massive yawn. 

She lowered her voice to a whisper, and Neria and Jowan leaned in closer. “While I was down in that cell, I found a tunnel that led to some sort of storeroom. It was filled with all sorts of things that are no doubt forbidden to the apprentices. All sorts of relics, weapons, and more books than you can imagine—I didn’t even recognize the language on most of them! In any case, I was a bit bored, and after some snooping around, I came across a book and took it along to my cell to read.” She glanced right at Anders. “It was about the Tevinter Imperium.”

Her friend sat ramrod straight, and his honey eyes gleamed golden in the dying light. “The Imperium, you say? Where _mages_ rule?”

Solona nodded. “I really don’t think it’s what you’re envisioning, though—”

“How could it _not_ be what I think?” Anders’ excited cry caused the other three to glance and see if the increase in volume had put the templar on his guard. After a careless shrug, Anders lowered his voice and continued, “I mean, it can’t be all that bad, can it? Yes, there are people here at the circle that I wouldn’t trust with that kind of power, but look at First Enchanter Irving—he’s practically leading a miniature country right here!”

“Only heavily mediated by the templars, though,” Neria put in thoughtfully.

Anders let out a frustrated sound from the back of his throat. “Think of what the four of us could do, though, if we had the opportunity! We could build up our own little utopian society where all the mages could be free to run about in fields of flowers, dancing the Remigold.”

“There’s more,” Solona said gravely, ignoring his enthusiasm, “the magisters in Tevinter often do horrible things to their slaves. Some of the things the book described…blood magic, all of it! I can barely stand to think of them!” She shuddered at the image her mind had conjured since reading the book—a figure in dark, mage’s robes with a heavy hood pulled over shadowed eyes, the glint of a blue steel knife, the piteous wail of an emaciated slave, cowering on the floor, crimson blood splashing onto a white floor, a high, cackling laugh and glow of power around the cloaked figure…

She was fervently grateful that she would never have to deal with such things here in the tower. The last rumors of blood magic here at Kinloch Hold had been dispelled many generations before her time.

Anders rolled his eyes, but the tense set of his shoulders indicated his discomfort. “Well, I _know_ that blood magic is just stupid. Who in their right mind would ever trust a demon? Still, I can’t help but think that if they hadn’t gotten so damned power hungry, this whole mageocracy could have been a good thing.”

Solona frowned. She was certain that her friend wouldn’t actually do anything rash, but that he wasn’t as put out by the methods of the magisters as she had expected was unsettling. 

“Well, I think I’ve had enough studying for one day,” Anders said with another huge yawn, pointedly ignoring the stern glance that Neria threw his way. “Jowan, do you want to come along to charm the cooks into giving us a bit of food?”

The dark-haired boy glanced back nervously at Neria but slowly rose from his seat to join his cavalier friend. After the two boys left, Solona looked at the quiet elf across the table from her. “Neria, I know for a fact that you’ve already finished up all the reading for the next two weeks. You don’t need to sit here while I finish what I neglected down in that cell.”

“Are you sure? I really don’t mind keeping you company if you’d like.”

Solona smiled and shook her head. “I’ll be fine—really. You probably want to study on your own, anyway. You and I both know that you’re probably near the top of the list for the upcoming Harrowings.”

That earned a small grin from her friend. “And you’ve probably knocked yourself back a few spots since you got caught.”

“I know, I know,” Solona laughed. “Go on, I’d better get started on this reading.”

After Neria disappeared, Solona reluctantly pulled _Techniques and Trivialities of Entropy_ closer, and flipped to the page that covered weakness spells. After an hour of forced concentration and enduring the rising temperature of the room, she still had no idea what the difference was between casting “weakness” and “paralyze.” 

“They both drain energy, so how do you control which spell you cast?!” she exclaimed to no one in particular before dropping her throbbing head onto the table. 

_Maybe just a short nap will enlighten me…_

***

Solona awoke with a start. The candle on her worktable had burned out long ago, and the windows showed only darkness. The faint, plaintive keening of mourning doves could be heard from somewhere in the distance.

Clearly, the “short nap” had turned into something else entirely.

After poking her head outside of the small room and realizing that she was likely the only person left in the library, Solona raced to gather her books together in a haphazard pile. The templar still stood guard outside, so she wasn’t late for curfew. Yet.

As she raced to the main door of the library, the bell sounded.

With a curse, she turned into the hallway, praying that by some miracle the guard had already left. As luck would have it, the silver plate and wreathed flame insignia greeted her, and Solona’s heart dropped. 

_Well, it’s back to solitary confinement for me._

“Good evening, apprentice,” a soft voice said.

Solona was momentarily speechless—she had been expecting a harsh rebuke followed by a forced march up to the knight-commander’s office.

He held out his arm, indicating that she should begin to head for her dormitory. “Let’s get you back to your room before you get into any more trouble.”

“Cullen?” Her voice was incredulous. He said nothing immediately, but rather turned his head to face her, inclining his chin in what she assumed was affirmation. 

She wasn’t sure exactly how to react around him. She fingered her bracelet. That he had returned it—and attached a note with more than a hint of teasing—suggested that she was at least partially forgiven. That thought still didn’t make her smile. The memory of his face when he’d found out that she was to blame for all of his early troubles at the circle was etched firmly in her mind.

Silence pressed between them, as impenetrable as the stone walls of the tower. Solona chanced a glance at the templar before daring to speak, her voice barely more than a whisper. “Cullen, I know I said it already, out by the lake, but… I’m so sorry.”

Her throat constricted, and she didn’t dare say more lest her shaky voice betray the maelstrom of emotions that had overcome her. To her very great surprise, when he replied, she could have sworn that he was actually smiling while he spoke.

“It’s all right.” He paused and slowed his pace to turn to her. “If I hadn’t forgiven you, you know, I don’t think you’d be wearing that bauble.”

Solona’s cheeks burned. So, its return _had_ meant that he’d at least thought of her enough to grant her pardon in his absence.

“Thank you,” she said, still quiet. Then, working up the courage, she asked the question that had been on her mind ever since her bracelet’s return. “Why did you decide to return it? I was certain that you hated me.”

Their pace slowed further as if to reflect the serious turn their conversation had taken. 

“At first, I thought I did. I was so angry. In fact, I’d convinced myself for a few days while we were gone that I’d have nothing more to do with you.” He stopped walking completely and faced her. “But something changed. I had a… revelation, I suppose would be the right word. I realized that those things that you did—along with some of your friends, I imagine—were all in good fun. I doubt you meant anything more than simple teasing with them.”

Solona was shocked, and she hastily closed her mouth. Before she could confirm what he had said, though, Cullen continued to speak.

“Something also tells me that you may have held back a bit on that last stunt you pulled.” He chuckled before continuing, “I mean, long hair was really the best you could come up with after those glorious first two pranks?”

Despite herself, Solona smiled. “I suppose you’re right. I thought that, especially after your incident in the chantry, you maybe deserved a bit of a break.”

“For that small mercy I will be eternally grateful,” he quipped. 

Silence fell once more, but far more comfortably. With a significantly greater spring in her step, Solona asked, “How have you enjoyed things here in the tower so far? Aside from our rather… overly enthusiastic initiation, of course.”

He laughed softly. “It’s been quite good. Most of the men and women I work with have been very welcoming and helpful. Things are very organized, and I certainly am kept busy. The food is also good, and there are even a few of the charges that have caught my interest.”

Solona turned to consider him, not certain that she’d heard that last part correctly or if he even meant anything by it. Before she could ask, though, the dormitory door loomed in front of her. Before placing her hand on the cool, brass knob, she twisted her bracelet once more.

“Thank you, by the way, for returning my bracelet, Cullen.” She turned the knob with a soft click before whispering, “It’s one of the few things I have left from my life before the tower. Having it back means more to me than you could know.”

Slipping soundlessly inside the room without a backward glance, Solona did not catch the lingering gaze of the templar, nor did she see the dark, jealous eyes that had seen the entire encounter.

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope that you enjoy this, the first of the chapters from Hawke's POV!

_Dragon 9:29, Justinian 8_

_Hawke_

***

Light grey eyes peered out from under a mess of ebony hair, damp from a long day of work in the sun. Marian Hawke flipped the long tresses over her shoulder, scowling at how they clung to her face and neck.

Her mother had begged her to keep her hair long, despite her protestations otherwise. After her father had died, though, Marian didn’t have the heart to deny her mother this one, silly request—even if it _was_ something as inconsequential as hair length and style.

Ignoring her dirty hands, she wiped the sweat from her brow before hanging up the bucket she had been carrying. The chickens that freely roamed the yard scuttled around her feet, hoping for extra kernels of corn to fall out. She walked up to a rainwater-fed barrel—an ingenious design of her late father’s and younger brother’s—and dunked her face. She scrubbed vigorously, knowing well that her mother wouldn’t allow her to set foot in their pristine house if she was anything less than sparkling clean.

After drying her face with a rough towel, Marian glanced at her family’s small home. Bethany was bustling around the kitchen and looked to be singing to herself. Marian smiled—when Bethany was happy, her entire face lit up to enhance her natural good looks.

The best way Marian could think to describe herself was unique—she was by no means the classic beauty that Bethany was, but she still had a certain charm that could be considered appealing. Her complexion was significantly lighter than her mother’s or siblings’, despite the hours she spent toiling under the sun. Her father had been the same way, except his hair had been a lighter shade of brown. Why she couldn’t have inherited the same golden-brown skin that both her siblings had, Marian would never understand. Her distinctive eyes were another attribute that only the eldest child had inherited from their father—Bethany, Carver, and their mother all shared chocolate brown eyes. All things considered, the only things that marked Marian as an Amell were her dark hair and slightly upturned nose.

Tossing the worn towel aside, Marian headed for the house. The cottage was small, but cozy. According to Leandra, Malcolm had cut each tree that formed the walls, and hauled all the stones from the river to make the fireplace and mantle to build it. The wood was whitewashed every spring, and Leandra had put light blue and yellow curtains in all the windows that gave the rooms a light and open feeling. As she pulled the heavy door open, the smell of baking bread made her mouth water.

“Smells wonderful, Bethy,” she said with feeling, wandering into the small, orderly kitchen and reaching for one of the loaves.

Her sister snapped the towel she was holding, smacking Marian on the hand. “Hey! That’s for dinner later this evening—you know Carver will be upset if you get some before he does.”

Marian snorted with laughter just as her mother came in. “Since when has Carver ever paid _us_ that same kindness?”

“All the same, darling, it really would be best to wait for everyone,” Leandra said. It had been decades since she had moved to Ferelden, but her voice still carried a hint of affectation. Though she had never been to Kirkwall herself, Marian supposed that was the result of having grown up among the elite of that city. Despite having forsaken wealth and status in the Free Marches for true love—with an apostate, no less—these small hints of her old life had never left Leandra.

Marian smiled affectionately at her mother’s attempt to remind her of her good breeding and skipped over to give her a swift peck on the cheek. “Of course, Mother. I need to go into town before dinner in any case.”

Leandra cast an anxious glance toward the window, “This late, Marian? Are you certain it can’t wait until tomorrow morning?”

“Mother,” Marian sighed, “sundown won’t be for several hours, and not only are we completely out of soap, but we also have more eggs than we could eat in a year. Since Carver’s hunting, it would be nice to pick up some salt to preserve the meat we get from that. Plus,” she added with her most charming smile, “I would really like to just browse around and see what some of the merchants have for sale.”

After a moment’s pause and another frown, Leandra consented “Very well, dear, just _do_ try to hurry back. You know how I worry about you going off on your own.”

Marian blew her mother one more kiss and waved goodbye as she slung a pack of trading supplies on her back and walked for the door. Before she left, though, Bethany caught up with her.

“Here,” she said in a conspiratorial whisper, handing Marian a small, warm roll that had been slathered with butter, “just don’t tell Carver.”

Marian laughed and thanked her, putting the bread to her nose and inhaling deeply.

_Truly, there is not much in this world that can top freshly baked bread._

Marian relished the snack on the short walk from their little farm on the outskirts of Lothering to the town marketplace. Although most of the businesses were beginning to take their wares inside and bar the doors, the stands of the market were still bustling with activity. Although there wasn’t much in the way of fresh vegetables, there were stands selling salted beef, fresh pork and chicken, herbal remedies and salves, leather and wool, coarsely spun threads and yarn, and many other handmade items. There was an air of friendly competition in the area as men and women called out their wares in the hopes of enticing buyers to take a look, and all of the crafts were artfully displayed and surrounded by colorful awnings or banners to draw the eye.

Contrary to what she had told her mother, Marian didn’t intend to spend her time browsing for ribbons and baubles at all. After a brief but heated barter with the baker, Marian had sold her eggs and now had a pouch full of jingling coin. She went straight for the stalls selling salt, soap, and string and bought what she needed without sparing a glance at the other merchandise. Marian walked away from the market, but not back in the direction of her home.

As she neared the opposite side of town, Marian stashed her bag in a hole she had dug the previous month, concealing it with the slab of wood she had found nearby. Facing the forest, Marian smiled and felt her heart beat with anticipation. She had an appointment that she’d been looking forward to for weeks.

***

Surrounded by the enormous pines and balsams that stood sentinel against prying eyes, Marian felt safe and concealed. Although most of the townsfolk avoided the woods for fear of wild animals and the Chasind, she and Carver sought refuge here—he to hunt the elusive, larger game and she to be alone. She breathed in the fresh, earthy scent that was free from the smoke and tobacco that leeched into everything near Lothering, and picked her way farther in.

She emerged into a small clearing where a few aspens grew and made straight for a fallen log she had hollowed out earlier in the week. Inside was a long, straight staff made out of ironwood that her father had brought back from a trip to Antiva several years ago—a rare find in this part of Thedas. She gripped the unfamiliar makeshift weapon clumsily and walked up to a particularly menacing tree.

Marian had never been trained in hand-to-hand combat, although her father had meant to teach her before he died. He’d trained Carver extensively, though, and Marian had no doubt that when it came to two-handed swords, her little brother could easily win any tournament he threw himself into. Although she was not without defense, Marian knew that learning some form of fighting would come in handy if her brother was unable to help and if she preferred not to reveal her own set of unique skills. She eyed her unmoving target again, clutching the staff awkwardly.

Pretending that the tree was a scarred and battle-hardened soldier from some distant, evil land, Marian lunged forward and drove the staff directly at the tree. The jarring impact caused her to yelp and drop her weapon, and she rubbed her chafed hands against her trousers to ease the sting.

“Hmm, well _that_ clearly wasn’t the best approach,” she mumbled to herself.

Picking up the cane, she adjusted her grip and tried a different tactic. This time she tried for agility, and hopped on her toes to the side before bringing her weapon around in an arc to smack the tree from the side. Though it was more effective than her first attempt, Marian seriously doubted that a real opponent would have even been pushed to the side, for all the power her blow had behind it. A second attempt, this time swinging her arms as hard as she could only succeeded in sending a shuddering impact through her own shoulder.

The tree remained impassive and undamaged.

With a heave of exasperation, Marian began whacking away at the stubborn trunk mindlessly, not even getting the satisfaction of seeing any bark fly from the tree. Gasping for breath and arms shaking from the effort, she stopped and flopped down on the ground with a groan.

She heard chuckling from behind her and whirled to see who had witnessed her fruitless attempts at vanquishing the tree. Bright blue eyes twinkled with amusement, and the man’s arms crossed over a chest that appeared to have just filled out with the muscle of adulthood. His dark brown hair was cut close to his head, and he wore light, practice chainmail. Marian knew that the band around his arm bore the same symbol that his full plate metal did, though—a grey sword wreathed in flame. He was a templar of Lothering.

Her chest grew tight when she saw him—those sapphire eyes of his never failed to make her heart skip a beat when he fixed them on her. All embarrassment forgotten, she clambered to her feet and rushed to embrace him. “Balin! I was wondering when you would get here. I thought you might have forgotten your promise.”

“Forget a promise to _you_ , dear lady? Maker, no,” he said lightly. “By the looks of things, it seems that I haven’t come a moment too soon, either. Andraste’s unmentionables, Marian, it looks like you’ve been fighting ogres, but did you do anything besides strain your own arms?”

She shoved him playfully. “Hey! I thought I’d try before you came. I think I’ve proven that the only direction for me to go is up. That’s what you’re here for, though—you’ve promised to show me the best way to defend my delicate self against any and all who would seek to do me harm.” She put the back of her hand to her forehead and did her best impression of a damsel in distress.

“That I did,” he laughed. “Although, I hate to say that you may be the first lost cause I’ve run across. Are you sure I can’t talk you into trying out these daggers?” He pulled a short, thin blade from his boot and flipped it repeatedly, unerringly catching it by the handle every time.

“Psh. I’m sure I’ll be bashing in heads in no time.” Marian picked up her staff and stalked back over to the tree. The dagger certainly seemed an appealing weapon, but she had her own reasons for choosing the staff. She gripped it tightly and prepared to do battle once again.

Balin walked up behind her. “Well, you won’t be bashing _anything_ with a grip like that. Here, let me show you.”

He put his arms around her own, gently taking her hands and moving them closer together. He spoke in a low voice into her ear, the stubble on his jaw tickling her ear. “Here… if you place your hands just a bit nearer to one another, you’ll get better leverage. It’s not all about brute strength with these long weapons—it’s about torque and momentum. Use the same motion from the wrist that you would with a whip, rather than putting all your body weight behind it.”

Marian pushed down the flutter that had built in her stomach from being so close to him and forced herself to focus on the instructions.

“Now, when you go to make a swing, concentrate on your form. Use a controlled motion, and think of your shoulder as the hinge, like this.” He gripped the wood above and below her own hands and moved the staff for her. Her own, slender arms were dwarfed by his much larger ones. “Don’t hesitate just before you make contact, be sure to follow through with the swing.”

He stepped back, and her hands shook from something more than the strain of holding the cane. Her breath came quicker, as it always did when Balin focused his attention on her. There was something about his deep, husky voice and penetrating eyes that never failed to send her senses flying. Marian walked closer to her target and took a deep breath, trying to sort through the advice he had given her. She swung, pivoting her hips around and trying not to anticipate the impact.

_Whack!_ Small pieces of bark flew from the point of contact, and her arms vibrated with the force. Her fingers went numb, and she dropped the staff once again.

“Much better!” Balin said, walking forward to capture her hands in his own, rubbing circles into her aching palms.

Marian scowled. “Well, even if I _can_ hit harder, a lot of good it’ll do me if I drop my weapon and his friend walks up with a big sword, intent on running me through with it.”

“It’s all about practice, Mari. Plus, even though it’s good to be able to defend yourself, I really don’t ever see there being a time when you’ll need to apply these lessons I’ve agreed to give you.” He tilted her chin up, fixing her with piercing cerulean eyes. “Your brother is as good a fighter as I’ve ever seen, and we templars are rather good at protecting people, too, you know.”

Marian nodded. She knew that there was little chance of her ever needing to take up arms in the way she was practicing, but she had promised her father that she would learn not only how to fight, but to fight with this specific weapon.

Balin coached her for some time longer. As the last of the lingering sunlight filtered through the thick branches, both of them agreed it was time to stop—he from the lack of light and she because maintaining a solid grip on the staff was rapidly proving to be impossible.

“Same time and place, two days from now?” Balin asked.

Marian nodded and leaned into his open arms. His hand stroked her messy hair, and rough lips pressed against her forehead.

“Good night, Mari.”

“You, too, Balin. Thank you.”

After stowing her staff back in the log, Marian turned to head for home. She still felt the warmth from Balin’s embrace and rubbed her arms absentmindedly. For the last year, she had been inexorably falling under the spell of the handsome young templar. For the last year, her logic and feelings had been at war. She thought back to that fateful first day she’d met Ser Balin Leavitt.

_She had been trying to wheedle Ben into lowering his pork prices with little success, and finally conceded defeat. The man’s prices were ridiculous, but he knew that he had the best quality meat in town and that most people would come up with the coin for it. After dropping off the food at home, she’d gone back to the local bar for a quick drink and to hear any gossip. That’s when she had seen him, sitting across the tavern and looking completely unlike any of the boys she’d grown up with._

_Compared to the men he was with, he still looked painfully young and was flush with excitement, but there was a deeper breadth to his shoulders and harder set of his mouth than any of the local farm boys or merchants had. Marian had heard from some of the chantry sisters that a new templar had arrived in Lothering, but until that day, she hadn’t noticed anyone new. She had made it her business—for her sake and her sister’s—to know all of the templars in the town ever since they had moved to Lothering. She suspected that she knew the templar roster better even than the knight-commander did._

_The new templar had caught her off guard when he turned her way, though. His easy smile had caught her notice that evening, but the following day he had spoken to her outside of the chantry and stolen her attention far more thoroughly than even she realized._

_They had kept their friendship quiet—such relationships with the local girls, though not forbidden, were certainly discouraged for these warriors of faith. Occasionally chatting when they met in the village turned to walks around the outskirts of the nearby fields. A few weeks later, he had first reached for her hand, and she’d allowed this chaste contact before thinking it through. Every so often, a bouquet of wildflowers was in his hands when he stood waiting for her. Months later, he’d stolen a kiss on the cheek in the apple orchard west of the stream, the sweet scent of the blooming trees on the air. Later that night, touching the spot that his lips had caressed, Marian had realized that her heart hadn’t felt that light since before her father had died._

_As the seasons changed, Marian struggled with her conflicting emotions. She could no longer conveniently deny her feelings for Balin, nor could she ignore his ever more open sentiments of affection. Something had to be done, but what?_

_After several sleepless nights, she reached a decision—one that she couldn’t deny, though she knew it would bring nothing but trouble. She would allow this to run its course—chances were good that he’d end up being transferred. Most of the templars rotated out every couple of years. Even if he wasn’t… well, her family hadn’t raised any suspicions, and she had a firm grip on her own abilities and knew the consequences of letting her guard down._

_She would give this a chance. Allow herself to be just like any other young woman, for a change. Be courted by a handsome man, sneak away to talk to one another under the cover of darkness, feel that torturous and exquisite tightening of her chest when they were apart. Live, love… make mistakes._

Marian swallowed hard as she recalled her own, foolish logic.

_A mistake. What a beautifully simple way to describe the disaster that this has become._

Marian Hawke was not just another young woman who had the luxury of giving her heart away to anyone. In fact, she’d had the audacity to fall in love with the most dangerous person in the village—not because of his fighting abilities, nor for his temperament. He was dangerous because of his occupation. His title.

Templar.

She’d been raised to shy away from the men who served the Divine. Raised to conceal and protect her sister and herself at any cost. The templars were no friends to the likes of the Hawke family. She had put herself and her entire family at risk.

If she was smart, Marian would cut off all connections with the dark-haired boy the very next time she saw him. Better to tear her heart out now than be responsible for her family’s betrayal, which was inevitable were she to continue living this lie.

For a lie was all their relationship was—all it ever could be. There was no future for her with Balin, no matter what she might want or how much she believed he wanted her. He was a templar, and she could never truly be herself around him.

Marian was a mage—an apostate, no less. One of the very people he was sworn to hunt down and imprison in the Circle. If it had only been her own safety and freedom that she had to worry about, Marian may not have cared so much, but there was another that she could not forget about: Bethany—her sweet, innocent younger sister who would surely wilt like a flower bereft of sunlight were she to be confined in the circle.

Malcolm Hawke had taught his daughters that magic was a gift from the Maker himself, and that they should always embrace it as such. However, lately Marian had found that this _gift_ was more of a burden than she had ever anticipated. She couldn’t even tell Balin the true reason she wanted training with a staff, rather than the more manageable dagger he had suggested.

A staff, properly wielded by a mage, could both amplify a mage’s power and serve as a last line of protection if their shields of magic were breached. Malcolm had died before he’d had a chance to instruct his daughters on fighting with such a weapon.

Now that she’d found someone else willing to teach her, Marian couldn’t help but feel the sting of guilt at her manipulation of the man who loved her. To save both of them pain, she needed to cut off all connections with him.

If he were to act against her or Bethany, Marian knew that she would have to fight against Balin with everything she had. She prayed she would never have to do that. If he were to find out that she was an apostate, she knew there was no other alternative, though.

Love was no match for the duty instilled in the templars.

 


	10. Chapter 10

_Dragon 9:29, Solace 12_

_Cullen_

***

Cullen sat near the front of the chapel, where an emergency meeting had been called. All templars were required to attend, and the mages had been confined to their dormitories to prevent any mischief for the duration of the assembly.

Greagoir entered and was followed by the first-enchanter. Many of the templars glanced at one another in shock—it was not normal for the mages to get involved with templar business. Irving placed a spell on the door to prevent any prying ears from hearing what was said within. Nodding in thanks, Greagoir addressed the assembled men and women.

“This will not take long, but there is an important matter that I must bring to your attention.” He looked around to ensure that all eyes were trained on him. “There have been rumors of blood magic in the tower.”

A chorus of whispers broke out as the templars glanced at one another, most of them in disbelief. Warren, who Cullen sat next to, had the audacity to laugh at what the knight-commander had said.

When the chatter died down, Greagoir spoke again, a small frown on his lined face. “Now, most of you know that there has not been an incident of blood magic here in living memory, and may be inclined to ignore these reports completely.” He glanced sternly at Warren, and Cullen held back a smile. “Though every rumor of blood magic that has been reported to me has been just that—a rumor, it is imperative that we maintain vigilance until the matter is resolved. Hopefully, as has been the case before, the troublemaker who started the rumor will come forward or be ratted out by others. Thus far, none of the instigators have actually been guilty of blood magic, thank the Maker.”

Deep lines furrowed his brow and his expression became even more serious. “I cannot stress enough, though, that whatever you may be inclined to believe, you must be alert at all times. Should any of you see or hear anything suspicious, report directly to me. You are dismissed.”

The noise of clanking armor and chatter filled the chapel as Cullen stood to leave. He was due to guard the main door soon. Before he reached the door, though, he was pulled aside by the knight-commander.

“Ser Cullen, one moment, please.”

Cullen saluted his superior before standing at attention.

Greagoir lowered his voice so as not to be overheard by the men and women leaving. “There is a Harrowing scheduled for tonight. As you have already proven yourself capable in the few months that you’ve been at the circle, Irving and I have agreed that it is time you attended one to become familiar with the ritual.”

Cullen’s heart swelled with pride, but he kept his face serious as the knight-commander continued. “You will not be acting as the official Guard—the one to strike the blow should a mage fail—but rather as an observer. Pay close attention to what happens, and I will give you further training tonight. Meet me outside of the Harrowing chamber at the eleventh bell this evening.”

“Of course, ser,” Cullen replied, saluting once more.

“Very good, recruit. I will see you tonight.”

***

The trembling mage was brought through the doors, half asleep and held up by the two templars on each side of him. Cullen did not recognize the boy, and breathed a sigh of relief that, should the worst happen tonight and the mage fail, at least it wasn’t someone he knew.

Irving pulled the apprentice aside and began to tell him the history of the Harrowing ritual, and Greagoir leaned in to explain the finer details to Cullen.

“During the Harrowing, a mage is sent into the Fade with the assistance of lyrium—the same substance that gives the templars the ability to detect and combat magic. In the Fade, the mage will be tested by a demon. Those who are able to resist and defeat the demon are considered mature enough in both power and mind to become full-fledged mages of the circle.”

Cullen nodded his understanding, and he and Greagoir turned to watch the mage approach the font in the middle of the chamber. The black pedestal’s contents shimmered as the boy reached out a trembling hand, sending rippling patterns of light onto the vaulted ceiling. With a last glance back at Irving, he plunged his hand into the liquid. He stepped back, and moments later went completely rigid, his head thrown back with eyes wide open, a faint blue light shining out of them that matched the color of the lyrium.

Greagoir strode forward to approach the mage, indicating that Cullen should follow. “Contrary to the gossiping of the apprentices, mages are given as much time as they need to complete this task. Most average around two hours, although we’ve seen a range from as fast as three quarters of an hour up to six hours.”

“Ser?” Cullen asked, waiting until the knight-commander nodded. “How is it we are to know if the mage must be struck down?”

“The key is to watch their eyes,” Gregoir said, pointing at the mage in front of them. “As long as the blue light is visible, the mage is actively pursuing their goal in the Fade. The surest sign that something has gone wrong and the mage must be eliminated is when their eyes take on a red tint—that is indicative of demon possession. If this is seen, the guard on duty must act quickly and without second thought. An abomination is nothing to be trifled with, and could easily overwhelm two or three templars if it catches them off-guard.”

“And what of mages who take too long?” Cullen asked. “I was always under the impression that the fate of a mage who did not complete the task within a certain timeframe was the same as if he were to make a deal with a demon.”

Greagoir shook his head, but it was Irving who answered. “A common misconception, Ser Cullen. In years past, there was a limit on time, but a better method has been developed to prevent unnecessary killings. We have found that, if a mage has given up trying, or is too afraid to even confront the demon and are aimlessly wandering the Fade, the light in their eyes changes to white. At this point, I am able to sever their tethers to the dream world, and doing so renders them tranquil. This was determined to be a fair compromise, as these weaker apprentices are not strong enough to be entrusted with a staff. It is also unlikely that they would seek to bolster their power by becoming possessed, especially as they are too fearful to even approach a demon.”

“Thus,” Greagoir continued, “in order to ensure that their weaker minds will not be overtaken by a demon, Tranquility was determined to be the best option.”

Cullen nodded, and asked a few other questions concerning the Harrowing. Greagoir had just told him that this was only their third Harrowing of the year so far when the first enchanter interrupted.

“I believe the boy has succeeded. Look.”

Cullen turned to observe the mage once more. He was enveloped in a blue haze that brightened to blinding proportions before shattering into shards of light. The boy shuddered, then fell to the floor, his eyes closing at last.

“Excellent,” Irving said, going forward to lay a hand on the mage’s forehead. “Greagoir, if you would be so kind to have two of your men take Geoffrey back to the apprentice quarters? I believe that it is high time for this old man to get to bed. I’ll make arrangements for him to move to the mage’s quarters in the morning.”

“Very good, first enchanter,” Greagoir responded before turning to Cullen and Bran, who had been the assigned guard for the Harrowing. “Please take the boy back to the Creation ward, then you may return to your own quarters for the night.”

“Yes, ser,” they responded in unison. Nodding to one another, Cullen and Bran picked up the prone boy and headed for the first floor.

***

_Amell_

***

Solona stifled a yawn as the twelfth bell sounded. It was well past curfew, but she and Neria had gotten permission from the first enchanter and knight-commander to use a classroom to study in. For the last month, Neria had become more and more nervous about her impending Harrowing. She’d begun by staying up late and studying on her own, but now needed help from a friend to practice casting glyphs and spells and blocking attacks.

They’d heard clanking in the hall about one hour earlier, but hadn’t made it to the door in time to see if it had been templars taking someone to be Harrowed. Solona stared out the open window, listening to the lap of waves on the shore, and wondered about what actually happened in that secret ritual.

_The most logical thing, I suppose, would be to test our knowledge of spells and theory—if it’s that, though, why would they do it in the middle of the night? Just secrecy? There’s got to be more to it than that… plus, a simple practical examination sounds so dull!_

“Solona!” Neria’s irritated shout broke her from her reverie. “Did you hear a word I just said?”

“Sorry, Neria. I must be tired. What did you say?”

The elf wiped a sheen of sweat from her brow. “I want to practice my fire spells. Would you please put them out so we don’t burn the tower down?”

Solona laughed. “Of course. Let’s have at it.”

As Neria cast a variety of flame spells, varying their distance, strength, and area they covered, Solona stood by and sent fine mists of water and ice to negate the heat. A combination of the heat and depletion of mana caused her eyes to grow heavier, and it wasn’t until a stray flame singed the hem of her robe that Solona decided that she’d had enough.

“Neria, I’ve got to go, otherwise I’ll be useless in classes in the morning,” she said, batting at the blackened patch of her robe.

Her friend nodded. “You go ahead. I should go over my notes again, anyway.”

Solona raised her eyebrows in disbelief, noting the dark circles under Neria’s eyes. “You’re not done yet? You keep this kind of schedule up, and when you’re Harrowing finally does get here, you’ll end up just falling asleep!”

“Ha, ha,” mocked Neria. “I’ll be fine. You just worry about getting yourself caught up so that they consider you for the Harrowing sometime in the next five years.”

Solona laughed. “Good point. However, unlike _some_ people, I actually need sleep if I want to be coherent enough to retain any knowledge.”

“Go on, then,” Neria said with a grin. “Thanks for the help.”

Solona waved goodbye, and began the long trudge back to the first floor.

***

In a haze of fatigue, Solona turned the final, sharp corner that would open into the staircase that led to the ground floor. She smacked into something hard, and fell to the ground in an ungraceful heap. Giving her head a shake, she realized that it was actually _someone_ that she’d run into, and that someone was a person she had no desire to see whatsoever.

Match.

He had become increasingly forward with his requests for her company since their last meeting, and the look in his eye tonight indicated that his patience was nearing an end. Still, Solona had no intentions of going along with his wishes.

“My, my. Haven’t you been in enough trouble already, Solona?” His harsh voice was filled with amusement, and his tongue clicked in mock disapproval.

Solona narrowed her eyes at him before shooting back a sarcastic reply. “Oh, yes. Ever so much trouble, especially considering I have this note signed by the knight-commander and First Enchanter Irving giving me permission to be out past curfew.”

Match stepped in front of her, and his dark eyes roamed over her sprawled out form. Solona held back a shiver of discomfort, certain she had only imagined the flash of scarlet light in his pupils.

“I’ve been thinking, Solona,” he said as she struggled to her feet, not bothering to offer her a hand. “Some time ago, I asked you what I should do if I wasn’t interested in other girls besides you, remember? I believe you said to ‘figure it out,’ am I right? Well, I think I’ve come up with a solution, but there’s another problem I have.”

“And what might that be?” Solona asked warily.

“While I haven’t been able to even _think_ about the other girls in the tower, it appears that you’ve wasted no time in forgetting me.” He paused and fixed her with a piercing stare. “I saw you with that templar again—rather late at night, in fact.”

Solona’s heart stuttered and her throat clenched. _How could he possibly know about that?_

“He was simply escorting me back to my dormitory to ensure I didn’t run into anything—or anyone… unsavory.”

“And does a simple escort need to linger so long at the door?” he asked with a smile. “No? I thought not. Solona, let me make myself clear: if you finally agree to join me tonight—something I personally guarantee you’ll enjoy—then I may just forget that I’ve seen you out of bed after hours, and with a templar.”

Solona gaped at him. “No,” she replied flatly.

He smirked and folded his arms. “No? Well, I don’t think you really understand my meaning, Solona. You don’t have a choice, anymore.”

She went to push past him, answering furiously as she moved. “No choice? Are you mad? Of course I have a choice! And I’ll have you know, you lecher, that I’d sooner become tranquil than join you willingly.”

His lips curled into a grotesque snarl, and a red gleam lit his eyes once again. “Oh no? Well, in that case, you’ll be coming along with me _unwillingly_. I intend for you to accompany me, Solona, whether you like it or not. Trust me, I have the power to back my promise.”

Solona’s breath caught in her throat. Her first and only instinct was to flee, and she turned to do just that. In her panic, though, she had forgotten that Match’s cocky attitude was the product of something: he was one of the best mages the circle had seen in many years. Her headlong sprint away from the object of her terror was abruptly halted as invisible tendrils of magic wound their way up her legs before pulling tight, effectively rendering her motionless. More bonds stemmed from those to bind her hands behind her back. Her invisible cage drifted into the nearest room, seemingly of its own accord. Match followed calmly at a distance, his hand held before him to control its path. Once he had crossed the threshold, he shut the door behind them.

She wracked her brain for ways to break out of a web such as this, cursing the exhaustion that fogged her mind. Reckless spells poured from her in an attempt to break her bonds. Nothing worked. With rising terror, she saw Match drawing closer. A chill ran down her spine at the tight smile that contorted his handsome face.

“I’m afraid that you won’t be able to do anything to get out of that, my dear.”

She ignored him. There was always a counter-spell to a web, and even if she didn’t know that particular spell, some other form of magic would always cause the bonds to weaken and ultimately break. She switched to spirit spells, but realized that without knowing what class of magic he had used, it was likely that she would deplete her mana long before stumbling across the correct spell. With rising anxiety, she realized that she had no idea what type of web she had been encased in. Was it possible that Match had been taught some new type of spell she hadn’t learned yet? In desperation, she opened her mouth to scream.

A torrential flow of magic silenced her. Its smothering presence seeped between her closed lips, leaving a bitter taste in its wake.

“You really shouldn’t have even attempted that, Solona.” Match’s voice deepened, and it echoed unnervingly throughout the corridor. “I’m afraid that you’ve made me rather angry, now.” His too-calm voice frightened her more than any shout of fury could have.

An eerie red glow suffused him, and his left hand surfaced from the confines of his sleeve, clutching something silver. Quicker than her eyes could follow, the object flashed across to his right hand, and he sighed in rapture as red blood welled to the surface of the shallow cut.

_Maker, help me. The rumors were true, after all._

Solona’s eyes went wide with panic and she renewed her efforts to get loose, even as she felt her mana stores growing dangerously low. Solona knew her prayer was probably in vain, and the likelihood of anyone traveling this route again tonight before the templars’ dawn shift change was slim indeed. She was trapped with a blood mage.

Match laughed as he stalked closer, dark red drops splashing to the floor in his wake. “You’ve been defiant for so long, Solona. Always turning me down, constantly scorning me. Don’t you realize how many women would _die_ to be in your place?”

Before Solona could begin to fathom what he had planned, Match raised his right arm and backhanded her across the cheek, his own blood spattering her neck. As the warm spray of Match’s tainted blood hit her, she parted her lips to scream in panic. Again, the acrid taste of dark magic flooded her mouth, preventing any such action. She struggled to hold back the stinging tears that threatened to fall.

“With my greater powers, all of you will bend to my whim. And it starts tonight with you—the talented Solona Amell.” He gave a mock bow, and Solona hung her head in defeat.

***

_Cullen_

***

Cullen and Bran carried the boy through the quiet halls and deposited him back onto his bunk before quietly leaving the room.

“Ser Cullen, I’ll leave you here. I have overnight watch in the entrance hall, and should relieve Ser Jace,” Bran said once they were back in the corridor.

Cullen nodded, and turned to head back to the templar quarters, eager to reach his bed. It had been a long, but very educational night.

As he strode through the second floor, Cullen paused. He felt an unmistakable warm tingle in his spine, indicating that magic was being used somewhere nearby. Brow furrowed, he pulled the approval sheet for the evening out of his pouch. Scanning down the short list of names, he ran into the only line that made sense this late at night:

_Neria Surana, Solona Amell—Third Floor, Alamarri Room—Spellcasting Practice_

He glanced at the door he had sensed the pulse of magic from, and shook his head.

_What on earth are those two doing in the Maferath Room, and on the second floor? It’s much smaller than Alamarri. They’re going to end up ricocheting spells off the walls if they’re not careful!_

Putting the paper back in his pouch, Cullen removed his helm and approached the door. Deciding that some good-natured payback was in order, he decided to give the woman who’d haunted his dreams a stern reprimand for switching rooms. He smiled as he reached for the door handle, remembering how only a few days before, she’d whispered that he was ‘far too serious’ as she passed him in the hall, turning to glance back with a bright smile and spring in her step. He was looking forward to seeing shock reflected in her face tonight. Perhaps he’d even give them a hard time about studying too hard.

As the door swung open and he caught sight of Solona, the look on her face was not that of surprise like he’d been expecting—her sapphire eyes, normally so alight with life, were glassy with pain, and her brow was tight with panic. His smile fading, Cullen realized that she was caught in some sort of magical web, and wondered what Neria was playing at—surely she could see that her friend was more than merely uncomfortable?

He turned the corner to address the blonde, but his gaze was drawn to Solona’s face once again. Her right cheek was deeply bruised, with a thin cut slashing across the ugly mark. When he saw the crimson drops that dotted her neck, he stopped moving completely, a hot pit of ire bubbling through his carefully constructed layers of discipline. He was astounded that her best friend could even think to do something like this, and turned to confront Neria.

It wasn’t the petite elf. Instead, a tall mage stood watching Solona, lines of red light swirling under the surface of his skin. Cullen stood frozen for a moment before years of training pulled him into action.

“In the name of the Maker, cease your actions!” His strong voice rang through the small room.

At his words, he vaguely registered that Solona looked at him, a mixture of hope and terror blossoming on her face. His eyes were fixed on the mage who turned slowly, pulling his cloaked hood down to reveal eyes that glowed with the same crimson hue that the knight-commander had taught him about only hours before.

The mage looked straight at Cullen. “I think not, templar. You are the one who should heed your own words.” His voice built in volume, and as he finished speaking it trailed off into an unearthly wail. A silver dagger flashed in the dim light, and as he ground the tip into his left palm, the red light brightened. The mage clapped his hands together before pointing both of his wounded hands down to the floor.

There was a hard impact to the air, as though the force of thunder rocking a building had been compressed into one, circular area. That force just as rapidly converged directly back onto the mage. His back arched from the invisible blow, his head thrown back and arms splayed to the side. A vortex of droplets spun around him, lifting his feet clear off of the ground.

Fixated on the sight before him, Cullen did not move.

As the mage’s body started to shudder, a ripping sound accompanied loud, sickening pops as the joints and bones in his upper body began to rearrange, forcing his robes to tear. His face was contorted in a mixture of agony and rage, and the tan skin of his face darkened further. Moments later, the transformation was complete. A hideous creature stood before Cullen. Humanoid in form, it now bore no resemblance to the handsome man the mage had been. Thick, sinewy tendons were wrapped around the creature’s torso and head, as if to hold its impossible anatomy together. One eye remained visible through the corruption, the iris as black and flat as a starless sky.

 _Abomination_.

The thing that Cullen had only been taught of, and that had stalked the darkest corners of his nightmares was come to life in front of his eyes. The stench of rotting flesh and burning pitch filled the air, and Cullen’s hand strayed to the pommel of his sword, his off-hand ready to reach for his shield.

“You weak, pathetic mortal,” the creature snarled at Cullen, its voice a disturbing mix of the man it had been and something far more vile. “Do you truly think you stand a chance against me? I will crush you first, then take my time with the girl. She was promised to me, and I will have my reward.”

His training kicked in, and with a roar of fury at the abomination’s threat toward Solona, Cullen extended a hand, forcing the power that stemmed from his lyrium consumption outward in a cold rush of wind. Though it did little to stop the creature’s approach, dispelling the magic in the room had at least released Solona from her enchanted trap. Forcing himself to focus on the snarling thing that neared him and not on Solona’s crumpled form, Cullen drew his sword and shield and prepared for combat.

The abomination reached Cullen and lashed out. Cullen stepped out of the way, but not fast enough to avoid the strike entirely. The glancing blow jarred his shoulder, but Cullen ignored the sting. He crouched low, his shield held out defensively—he knew that as long as he had correctly rid the creature of magical energy, its remaining weapons were now its near-limitless stamina and inhuman strength. The creature charged again, but this time Cullen was ready.

Just as the creature was about to run directly into him, Cullen lashed out with his shield and pivoted away, effectively unbalancing his foe. He struck with his sword, scoring a deep slash along its back. Ichor seeped from what would have been a lethal wound to anything else. The abomination roared its anger and grabbed Cullen’s shield, ripping it from his grasp and tossing it away as though the metal disk weighed no more than a pewter plate. Both gnarled hands reached down for Cullen, and he hacked at them with his sword, unable to get the leverage for a decent hit at this short range.

Cullen was lifted off his feet by his shoulder plate, his sword hanging uselessly at his side. He saw stars as he was thrown backward into the wall, his skull cracking painfully against the stone. He felt something warm running down his neck, and blinked, trying to clear the fog that obstructed his vision.

Through the haze, he saw the hulking creature advancing on Solona’s prone form. With a heave of effort, Cullen pulled himself to his feet and stumbled forward, breaking into a clumsy run. Ignoring the searing pain in his head and forcing his arms to lift his heavy blade, he grunted with effort and brought his sword clean through the abomination’s corded neck.

Only after the creature fell did Cullen allow himself to sink to his knees next to Solona. He gently rolled her over, and breathed a sigh of relief when he saw her still breathing.

Thinking to close his eyes just for a moment, Cullen began to back away.

“ _Cullen_ …” He froze, unsure if the voice that had been as soft as a whispering breeze had been real. Glancing at Solona’s face, he saw that she remained unconscious. He reached out a tentative hand to brush her hair away from her cut cheek, but a clamor in the hall stopped him short.

Greagoir burst in, followed by two other templars and the first enchanter.

“Maker’s breath,” Greagoir breathed, his eyes wild. “So the rumors were true, after all. Cullen, are you hurt?”

Cullen blinked, trying to focus on the knight-commander and his echoing words. “Not much, ser.”

Irving had moved swiftly to Solona’s side and checked her over. “Apprentice Amell seems to be fine, thanks to you,” he said to Cullen, who could only nod weakly.

“Irving, would you and one of my other men get her to the healing wing? As soon as you’ve done that, please meet me in my office. I must speak with Ser Cullen, first.”

The first enchanter nodded, and Cullen watched as Solona was taken away, uttering a silent prayer to the Maker that she would be all right. He turned and, standing as straight as he was able, faced the knight-commander.

“Cullen, once we get to my office, I want you to tell Irving and me exactly what transpired after you left the Harrowing chamber,” he began. “But, before you do, I must commend you. Not many templars—even the veterans—would have been able to take down an abomination on their own. Had you not stopped this creature before we had arrived, Maker only knows the carnage it would have unleashed on the rest of the tower.”

Cullen remained silent. Greagoir had spoken the truth. Both he and Solona could easily have died this night. His heart clenched painfully as he remembered the scene he had walked in on. Had he and Bran not taken the apprentice back to the dorms… had Cullen not taken this particular path back on his way to bed… were he moments later than he had been… Painful images of what might have been tore at Cullen’s heart and soul.

Solona Amell—the mage that had inexplicably captivated him—had almost been lost to him forever.

 


End file.
